ijNh^ 




Class _i:^iA^ 

Book ^^<t> 

Copyright )^° 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



ENGLISH PROSE 
AND POETRY 

(1137-1892) 



SELECTED AND ANNOTATED 
BY 

JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY 

PROFESSOR AND HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH 
IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 



GINN AND COMPANY 

BOSTON • NEW YORK • CHICAGO • LONDON 
ATLANTA • DALLAS • COLUMBUS • SAN FRANCISCO 



\\o\ 






COPYRIGHT, .1907, .1909,. 191$, BY. 
JOHN MATTHEWS MANLY 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
3 16. 1 



FEB 25 19-15 



i;i\\ AM) coMi' \\^- ■ rKii- 

PKIliTUKS • BOSTON ■ U.S.A. 



^a.A427010 



PREFACE 

This book has been made in response to the wishes of teachers who "need a col- 
lection of English prose and poetry in a single volume and who desire to have the 
selections provided with notes. It contains no selection not included in its prede- 
cessors, English Poetry {ii'/o-i8g2) and English Frose {iTjy-i8go). The condensation 
of the two volumes has been made with care, and it is believed that no selection has 
been omitted which is necessary in a rapid survey course. 

For the texts previous to Chaucer translations have been made and printed side by 
side with the texts. These translations of course have not all the qualities of the 
originals, but an attempt has been made to preserve not only the metrical form but 
also the tone and general manner. Where the original had poor rhymes, or loose 
syntax, or undignified diction, such features have been permitted in the translation, 
though it was not always possible to reproduce each at the exact point of its appearance. 
The effort to preserve the tone of the original has often rendered the task of trans- 
lation or paraphrase difficult because of the necessity of excluding ideas and senti- 
ments foreign to the original as well as diction out of harmony with it. 

The briefer and simpler notes are placed on the same page with the text, because 
the editor feels that turning frequently to the back of a book to consult notes or a 
glossary disturbs the reader's enjoyment and thereby interferes with, if it does not 
destroy, the effect of a piece of literature. The more elaborate notes, containing gen- 
eral information about the texts or authors, or discussing difficulties, or quoting inter- 
esting parallels, are placed at the end of the volume for the same reason — that is, to avoid 
interference with the enjoyment of the reader while he is engaged in reading. They 
may be consulted beforehand, in preparation for reading, or later, in explanation of 
difficulties that have not been solved by the reader himself. In the case of a few 
poems, the notes are purposely elaborate, because the poems themselves are either 
especially difficult, or especially suggestive in diction, or especially loaded with allu- 
sions ; but in general the editor has striven to keep the annotations down to a practical 
minimum. That he has not always succeeded in this effort, he is only too well aware. 
There are many of the notes which he himself would disregard in reading and in 
teaching. But no one has yet discovered exactly what number of grains of sand makes 
a heap, and the present editor has not even been able to maintain strict consistency in 
regard to what knowledge may safely be assumed as possessed by students or easily 
accessible to them. 

Every student of English should possess a copy of Webster's Secondary School Dic- 
tionwy or the Standard Desk Dictionary. Either one of these excellent dictionaries 



IV 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



will be found to contain every word in these texts not explained in the notes. It was 
originally intended to omit from the notes every word explained in these dictionaries, 
but in practice it was found desirable to include many words found in them, chiefly 
because they were words which the student was likely to misunderstand and think it 
unnecessary to look up. 

The general notes at the end of the book are not intended to take the place of a 
history of English Literature, but merely to supplement such a volume or give emphasis 
to features, of immediate interest. Some of them perhaps will seem to the student 
unnecessary, but it is hoped that he will remember that there are other students whose 
equipment and mental power differ widely from his. 

For assistance with the notes and the translations, the editor wishes to thank his 
friends Professor James Weber Linn and Miss Edith Rickert. For help in reading the 
proofs and for making the Table of Contents and the Index, he is indebted to his 
father, Dr. Charles Manly, and his sister, Mrs. H. M. Patrick. 

In conclusion, the editor wishes to express the hope that he has done nothing that 
will make more difficult for the student the enjoyment of English Literature and the 
cultivation of a taste for reading. His aim has been to help, not to hinder. 

JOHN M. MANLY 



CONTENTS 



EARLY MIDDLE ENGLISH 

A Monk of Peterborough (c. 1154) 

The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (extract from 

An. 1 137) I 

The Poema IMorale, or Morale Ode (c. 11 70) 

(Author unknown) 2 

Orrm (fl. 1200) 

The Orrmulum 4 

Layamon (c. 1205) 

The Brut S 

The Ancren Riwle (Speech ; Nuns May Keep 
No Beast but a Cat) (c. 1225) 

(Author unknown) 8 

King Horn (c. 1250) (Author unknown) 9 

Nicholas de Guildford? (fl. 1250) 

The Owl and the Nightingale . 14 

Cursor Mundi (The Fhght into Egypt) 

(c. 1300) (Author unknown) . ... 17 
Thomas de Hales (bef. 1300) 

A Luve Ron 19 

Middle English Lyrics (Authors unknown) 

Alysoun (c. 1300) 21 

Springtime (c. 1300) 22 

Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt? (c. 1350) 23 

THE AGE OF CHAUCER 

William Langland? (1332 ?-i 400?) 
Piers the Plowman 

The Prologue, A-Text 24 

The Prologue, B-Text : The Fable 

of Belhng the Cat 28 

Sir John jNLandeville ? (d. 1371) 

The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John 

Maundevile, Kt 30 

John Wiclif (d. 1384) 

The Gospel of Mathew 34 

Syr Gawayn and the Grene Knyght (c. 1370) 

/ (Author unkno%vn) 37 

^earl (c. 1370) (Author unknown) 46 

John Gower (i325?-i4o8)' 

Confessio Amantis : Medea and Eson. ... 51 
Geoffrey Chaucer (i34o?-i4oo) 

Troilus and Criseyde 56 

The Canterbury Tales, The Prologue .... 59 
A Roundel (from The Parlement of 

Foules) 69 

Balade de Bon Conseyl 69 

The Compleint of Chaucer to His Empty 

Purse 69 

A Treatise on the Astrolabe, Prologus 70 



John de Trevtsa (1326-1412) 

Higden's Polychronicon 71 

THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 

Thomas Hoccleve (i37o?-i4So?) 

De Regimine Principum (On Chaucer) ... 72 
John Lydgate (i37o?-i45i?).. 

The Story of Thebes 73 

Ballads (Authors unknown) 

Robin Hood and Guy of Gisbome 74 

The Battle of Otterbum 77 

Sir Patrick Spens 80 

Captain Car, or Edom o Gordon 81 

Lord Randal 83 

Hind Horn 83 

St. Stephen and Herod 84 

Sir Thomas Malory (i4oo?-i47o) 

Le Morte Darthur, Bk. XXI, Cap. V 84 

William Caxton (1422?-! 491) 

Preface to the Book of Eneydos 86 

Stephen Hawes (d. 1523) 
The Pastime of Pleasure 

The Manage betwene Graunde 

Amour and Labell Pucell 86 

John Skelton (i46o?-is29) 

A Dirge for PhyUip Sparowe 87 

Colyn Cloute 88 

The Nutbrowne Maide (c. ischd) (Author 

unknown) 88 

Early Tudor Lyrics (c. 1500) 
Religious Lyric 

Who shall have my fayr lady? 92 

Christmas Carols 

Thj^s ender nyght 92 

Quid petis, O fily? 93 

Make we mery, bothe more and 

lasse 93 

WTiat cher ? Gud cher ! 94 

Convivial Songs 

Fyll the cuppe, Phyl>T)pe 94 

Make rome, syrs, and let us be mery 94 
Love Songs 

LuUy, luUey, lulley, lulley 94 

The ly tyll, prety nyghtyngale 94 

THE BEGINNING OF THE RENAISSANCE 

Sir Thomas More (1478-1535) 

A Dialogue of Syr Thomas More, Kt 95 

William Tyndale (d. 15^6) 

The Gospell of S. Mathew, Cap. V 96 



VI 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) 

The Deserted Lover Consoleth Himself 97 
The Lover Complaineth the Unkindness 

of His Love 98 

A Description of Such a One as He Would 

Love 98 

Of the Mean and Sure Estate 98 

Henry Howard, Earl or Surrey (151 7?- 

1547) 
Description of Spring 100 

Complaint of a Lover Rebuked 100 

Description and Praise of His Love 

Geraldine 100 

The Means to Attain a Happy Life 100 

Virgil's Mneid, Bk. H 100 

Roger Ascham (1515-1568) 

The Scholemaster : The First Booke for 

the Youth loi 

John Foxe (1516-1587) 

Acts and Monuments : The Behaviour of 

Ridley and Latimer 103 

Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst 
(i 536-1608) 

A Mirror for Magistrates: The Induc- 
tion 105 

THE RENAISSANCE 

Edmund Spenser (i552?-i599) 

The Shepheards Calender : Februarie. . . 108 

The Faerie Queene in 

Epithalamion 115 

Amoretti 117 

Prothalamion 118 

An Hymn in Honour of Beauty 120 

An Hymn of Heavenly Beauty 121 

Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586) 

Astrophel and Stella 122 

The Nightingale 123 

Hymn to Apollo 123 

Arcadia, from Bk. 1 124 

John Lyly (i 554-1606) 

Euphues and His England 127 

Apelles' Song 128 

Spring's Welcome 128 

Fairy Revels 128 

Thomas Lodge (i558?-i62s) 

Rosalynde : Euphues' Golden Legacy ... 129 

Robert Greene (i56o?-i592) 

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of 

content 131 

Philomela's Ode 131 

Sephestia's Song to Her Child 132 

The Shepherd's Wife's Song 132 

A Groat's Worth of Wit, Bought with a 

Million of Repentance 133 

Christopher Marlowe (i 564-1 593) 

Hero and Leander, The First Sestiad 135 

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) 

Venus and Adonis 137 

Sonnets 139 

Songs from the Plays 143 



George Chapman (i559?-i634) 

The Twelfth Book of Homer's Odysseys 145 
Samuel Daniel (1562-1619) 

Sonnets to Delia (XIX, LIV, LV) 146 

Epistle to the Lady Margaret, Countess 

of Cumberland 147 

Michael Drayton (1563-1631) 

Idea (IV, XX, XXXVII, LXI) 148 

Ode XII, To the Cambro-Britans : Agin- 

court 149 

Nymphidia, The Court of Fairy 150 

Francis Bacon (1561-1626) 
Essays 

Of Truth ._ _ 150 

Of Marriage and Single Life 151 

Of Great Place 152 

Of Atheism 154 

Of Wisdom for a Man's Self 155 

Of Friendship 156 

Of Youth and Age 159 

Minor Poetry 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is — Sir 

Edward Dyer 160 

The Silent Lover — Sir Walter Raleigh . 160 

The Conclusion — Sir Walter Raleigh . . 160 
Song of Paris and (Enone — George 

Peele 161 

Harvestmen a-Singing — George Peele. . 161 

Farewell to Arms — George Peele 16 1 

The Burning Babe — Robert Southwell 161 

Cherry Ripe — Thomas Campion 162 

England's Helicon 

Phyllida and Corydon — N. Breton. . . . 162 

As It Fell Upon a Day — Ignoto 162 

Phyllida's Love-call to Her Corydon — 

Ignoto 162 

The Shepherd's Description of Love — 

Ignoto 163 

Damelus' Song to his Diaphenia — 

H. C 164 

A Nymph's Disdain of Love — Ignoto . . 164 

Rosahnd's Madrigal — Thom. Lodge. . . 164 
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love — 

Chr. Marlowe 165 

The Nj'-mph's Reply to the Shepherd — 

Ignoto 165 

THE END OF THE RENAISSANCE 

Thomas Dekker (i57o?-i64i) 

Song from The Shoemaker's Holiday 166 

Song from Old Fortunatus 166 

Content (from Patient Grissill) 166 

The Gull's Hornbook, Cap. VI 166 

Ben Jonson (iS73?-i637) 

Song to Celia 169 

The Triumph of Charis 169 

To the Memory of my Beloved, Master 

William Shakespeare 169 

A Pindaric Ode 170 

An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy 171 

Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H 171 



CONTETSIt^S 



Vll 



John Donne (1573-1631) 

The Indifferent 171 

Love's Deity 171 

The Funeral .• '172 

Forget 172 

Death '172 

John Fletcher (iS79-i6'25) 

Sweetest Melancholy 173 

Invocation to Sleep 173 

Song to Bacchus i73 

Beauty Clear and Fair 173 

Weep No More 173 

Dirge i73 

Francis Beaumont (i 584-1616) 

Master Francis Beaumont's Letter to 

Ben Jonson 174 

William Drummond (1585-1649) 

Sonnet i74 

Madrigal I 174 

John Ford (fl. 1639) 

Song from The Broken Heart 175 

Dirge from The Broken Heart 175 

George Wither (i 588-1 667) 

Sonnet IV (from Fair Virtue) 175 

Thomas Heywood (d. 1650?) 

Go, Pretty Birds! 176 

William Browne (i 591-1643) 

Britannia's Pastorals, Bk. II, Song V 176 

Epitaph 176 

On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke. 177 

Robert Herrick (1591-1674) 

Cherry-Ripe 177 

Corinna's Going a-Maying 177 

To the Virgins, to Make Much of 

Time 178 

Upon Julia's Clothes 178 

To Daffodils 178 

To Keep a True Lent 178 

George Herbert (1593-1633) 

Virtue 178 

The Collar 179 

Love 179 

Izaak Walton (i 593-1683) 

The Complete Angler (extract) 179 

Thomas Carew (i598?-i639?) 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows 181 

Would you know what's soft? 181 

Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682) 

Hydriotaphia : Urn-Burial, Chap. V. . . . 181 

Edmund Waller (1606-1687) 

The Story of Phoebus and Daphne, 

Applied 184 

On a Girdle 184 

Go, Lovely Rose ! 185 

Thomas Fuller (i 608-1 661) 

The Holy State : The Life of Sir Francis 

Drake 185 

John Milton (1608-1674) 

On the Morning of Christ's Nativity. ... 189 

L' Allegro 192 

II Penseroso 193 

Lycidas 195 



John Milton (i 608-1 674) (Continued) 
Sonnets 

At the Age of Twenty- three 198 

When the Assault was intended to 

the City 198 

To the Lord General Cromwell 198 

Oh the Late Massacre in Piedmont 198 

On his Blindness 199 

To Cyriack Skinner 199 

Paradise Lost, Bk. I 199 

Of Education 208 

Areopagitica 210 

Sir John Suckling (1609-1642) 

The Constant Lover 214 

Why so Pale and Wan 214 

Richard Crashaw (i6i3?-i649) 

In the Holy Nativity of Our Lord God 214 
Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667) 

The Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying, 

Chap. I, Sec. II 216 

Sir John Denham (1615-1669) 

Cooper's Hill 218 

Richard Lovelace (161 8-1658) 

To Lucasta, Going to the Wars 218 

The Grasshopper 218 

To Althea, from Prison 218 

Abraham Cowley (1618-1667) 

The Wish 219 

Andrew Marvell (1621-1678) 

The Garden 219 

To his Coy Mistress 220 

Henry Vaughn (1622-1695) 

The Retreat 221 

The World 221 

The Timber 221 

THE RESTORATION 

John Dryden (i 631-1700) 

Stanzas on Oliver Cromwell 222 

Absalom and Achitophel 222 

The Hind and the Panther 223 

Alexander's Feast ; or, The Power of Music 224 

Lines under the Portrait of Milton 226 

An Essay of Dramatic Poesy 226 

Samuel Pepys (1633-1703) 

His Diary (extract) 234 

Samuel Butler ( 161 2-1 680) 

Hudibras, Part I, Canto 1 237 

John Oldham (1653-1683) 

A Satire Dissuading from Poetry 238 

John Locke (1632-1704) 

Of the Conduct of the Understanding 

(extract) 238 

John Bunyan (1628-1688) 

The Fight with Apollyon, from The 

Pilgrim's Progress 239 

Vanity Fair, from The Pilgrini's Progress 241 

Minor Lyrists 

Song : Love still has something 61 the 

sea — Sir Charles Sedley 243 

To Celia — Sir Charles Sedley 243 



VIU 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Minor Lyrists (Continued) 

Love and Life — John Wilmot, Earl of 

Rochester 244 

Epitaph on Charles II — John Wilmot, 

Earl of Rochester 244 

The Enchantment — Thomas Otway . . . 244 
To his Mistress — John Wilmot, Earl of 

Rochester 244 

THE CLASSICAL AGE 

Daniel Defoe (i66i?-i73i) 

An Academy for Women, from' An Essay 

upon Projects 245 

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) 

A Tale of a Tub, Section II 248 

A Modest Proposal 253 

Sir Richard Steele (1672-1729) 

The Tatler (Nos. 95, 167, 264) 254 

The Spectator (No. 11) 260 

Joseph Addison (1672-1719) 

The Campaign 262 

Hymn .' 262 

The Spectator 

Aims of the Spectator 262 

Thoughts in Westminster Abbey . . . 264 

The Head-Dress 265 

The Vision of Mirza 267 

Hilpa and Shalum 269 

The Sequel of the Story of Hilpa and 

Shalum 271 

Matthew Prior (i 664-1 721) 

To a Child of Quality Five Years Old. . . 272 

The Remedy Worse than the Disease. . . 272 

To his Soul 272 

Alexander Pope (i 688-1 744) 

An Essay on Criticism, Parts I, 11 273 

The Rape of the Lock 275 

Eloisa to Abelard 285 

An Essay on Man, Bk. 1 286 

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 2S8 

The Dunciad, Bk. IV 290 

The Iliad, Bk. VI 290 

John Gay (1685-1732) 

The Hare with Many Friends 291 

Black-Eyed Susan 292 

Edward Young (1683-1765) 

The Complaint, or Night Thoughts 

Man 292 

Procrastination 293 

THE TRANSITION 

Lady Winchilsea (i 661-17 20) 

A Nocturnal Reverie 294 

Robert Blair (i 699-1 746) 

The Grave 294 

James Thomson (i 700-1 748) 

Winter : A Snow Scene 296 

Summer : The Sheep-Washing 296 

Spring : The Coming of the Rain 297 

Autumn : Storm in Harvest 297 



James Thomson (i 700-1 74S) (Continued) 

The Castle of Indolence 298 

Rule, Britannia 300 

John Dyer (1700?-! 758) 

Grongar Hill 300 

David Mallet (i 705-1 765) 

William and Margaret 301 

Samuel Johnson (i 709-1 784) 

Congreve 302 

The Rambler (No. 69) 308 

London 309 

The Vanity of Human Wishes 310 

William Shenstone (1714-1763) 

Written at an Inn at Henley 311 

The School-Mistress 312 

Thomas Gray (1716-1771) 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton 

College 313 

Elegy Written in a Country Church- 
yard 314 

The Progress of Poesy : A Pindaric Ode 316 
The Fatal Sisters : An Ode from the 

Norse Tongue 318 

William Collins (17 21-1759) 

A Song from Shakespeare's Cymbeljme . 319 
Ode (Written in the beginning of the year 

1746) 319 

Ode to Evening 319 

The Passions : An Ode to Music 320 

Thomas Warton (i 728-1790) 

Sonnet IV. Written at Stonehenge 322 

Oliver Goldsmith (172S-1774) 

The Chinese Goes to See a Play (from 
Letters from a Citizen of the 

World) 322 

The Deserted Village 324 

Retaliation 329 

Edmund Burke (i 729-1 797) 

Speech on the Nabob of Arcot's Debts. . 331 
Reflections on the Revolution in France 335 

William Cowper (i 731-1800) 

The Task, from Bks. I, II, V 336 

On the Loss of the Royal George 338 

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture 338 

James Macpherson (?) (i 736-1 796) 

The Poems of Ossian : Cath-Loda, 

Duan III 340 

James Boswell (i 740-1 795) 

The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D., 

Chap. XIII..'. 341 

Junius 

Letter XV, to the Duke of Grafton 351 

Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770) 

Bristowe Tragedie ; or, The Dethe of Syr 

Charles Bawdin 353 

The Account of W. Canynges Feast. . . . 358 

George Crabbe (1754-183 2) 

Tales: The Lover's Journey, Tale X 358 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Songs of Innocence : Introduction 359 

Songs of Experience 

The Clod and the Pebble 359 



CONTENTS 



IX 



William Blake (i 757-1827) {Continued) 

The Sick Rose 360 

The Tiger 360 

A Poison Tree 360 

Ideas of Good and Evil 

Auguries of Innocence 360 

Two Kinds of Riches 360 

Love's Secret 360 

Minor Scottish Poets 

William Julius Mickle (i 735-1 788) 

There's Nae Luck About the House. . . . 361 
Jane Elliot (1727-1805) 

The Flowers of the Forest 361 

Robert Fergusson (1750-1774) 

Caller Water 362 

Robert Burns (1759-1796) 

Song : Green grow the rashes 362 

Address to the Deil 363 

Lines to John Lapraik 364 

To a Mouse 364 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 365 

Address to the Unco Guid 368 

To a Mountain Daisy 369 

A Bard's Epitaph 369 

Tam O'Shanter 370 

Bonie Doon 372 

Ae Fond Kiss 373 

Bonie Lesley 373 

Highland Mary 373 

Duncan Gray 374 

Scots Wha Hae 374 

A Man's a Man for a' That 374 

THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL 

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) 

Preface to "Lyrical Ballads" 376 

We are Seven 382 

Expostulation and Reply 383 

The Tables Turned 384 

Lines Composed a few miles above 

Tintern Abbey 384 

Lucy 386 

Three years she grew 386 

A slumber did my spirit seal 386 

Lucy Gray ; or, Solitude 386 

The Recluse 387 

To the Cuckoo 388 

My heart leaps up when I behold 389 

The Solitary Reaper 389 

She was a phantom of delight 389 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 390 

Ode to Duty 390 

Personal Talk 391 

Ode : Intimations of Immortality 391 

To a Sky-Lark 394 

Sonnets 

On the Extinction of the Venetian 

Republic 394 

Septemt)er, 1802, Near Dover 394 

Thought of a Briton 394 

London, 1802 395 



William Wordsworth (17 70-1 850) {Continued) 
Composed upon Westminster 

Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 395 

On the Sea-Shore Near Calais 395 

The world is too much with us 395 

To Sleep 395 

The River Duddon 396 

Most sweet it is 396 

Scorn not the sonnet 396 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (17 7 2-1 834) 

Biographia Literaria, Chap. XIV 396 

Kubla Khan ; or, A Vision in a Dream 399 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 400 

Christabel 415 

Robert Southey (i 774-1843) 

The Well of St. Keyne 416 

Francis Jeffrey (1773-1850) 

"The White Doe of Rylstone" 416 

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) 

The Lay of the Last Minstrel : The Lay 

of Rosabelle 417 

Marmion : Christmas in the Olden Time 418 
The Lady of the Lake : Soldier, Rest ! thy 

Warfare O'er 419 

The Lady of the Lake : Fitz- James and 

Roderick Dhu 419 

Charles Lamb (i 775-1834) 

The Two Races of Men 422 

Mrs. Battle's Opinion on Whist 425 

A Chapter on Ears 428 

The Old Familiar Faces 431 

Thomas Campbell (177 7-1 844) 

Ye Mariners of England (A Naval Ode) 431 

Battle of the Baltic 432 

Thomas Moore (1779-1852) 

The time I've lost in wooing 433 

Oft in the stilly night 433 

'Tis the last rose of summer 433 

The harp that once through Tara's hall 433 
Leigh Hunt (i 784-1859) 

Rondeau 434 

Fairies' Song 434 

Thomas de Quincey (1785-1859) 

The Confessions of an English Opium- 

Eater 434 

George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron 
(1788-1824) 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers . . . 443 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 445 

Sonnet on Chillon 451 

The Prisoner of Chillon 451 

Ode : Oh Venice ! Venice ! 455 

Know ye the land 457 

She walks in beauty 457 

So, we'll go no more a roving 457 

Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) 

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna 458 
Percy Bysshe Shelley (i 792-1822) 

Alastor ; or, The Spirit of Solitude 458 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 459 

Sonnet : Ozymandias 460 

Lines Written among the Euganean Hills 460 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Percy Bysshe Shelley (i 792-1822) {Continued) 

Ode to the West Wind 462 

The Indian Serenade 463 

The Cloud 464 

To a Skjdark 465 

To — (Music when soft voices die) 466 

Adonais 466 

Final Chorus from Hellas 473 

To Night ,. 474 

To — (One word is too often profaned) 474 
John Keats (1795-1821) 

Ode to a Nightingale 474 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 475 

To Autumn 476 

■ Ode : Bards of Passion and of Mirth 477 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 477 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 477 

Sonnets 

The Grasshopper and the Cricket 478 
On First Looking into Chapman's 

Homer 478 

To Sleep 478 

On the Sea 478 

When I have fears 479 

Bright Star ! 479 

Endymion , 479 

Hyperion 481 

The Eve of St. Agnes 482 

Walter Savage Landor (i 775-1864) 

.(Esop and Rhodope. ,.,.... 487 

Rose Aylmer 492 

A Fiesolan Idyl 492 

To Robert Browning 492 

Why 493 

On his Seventy-fifth Birthday 493 

On Death 493 

Thomas Hood (i 798-1 845) 

The Song of the Shirt 493 

Ruth 494 

WiNTHROP MACKWORTH PrAED (1802-1839) 

The Belle of the BaU-Room 494 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849) 

Dream Pedlary 495 

Death's Jest-Book (Song) 496 

THE VICTORIAN AGE 

Thomas Carlyle (i 795-1881) 

Sartor Resartus, Bk. II, Chaps. VII, 

VIII, IX 497 

Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay 
(1800-1859) 
The History of England, Vol. I, Chap, 

III (extract) 510 

John Henry, Cardinal Newman (1801- 
1890) 
The Idea of a University : Discourse VI 

(extract) 518 

AirRED, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) 

The Lady of Shalott 523 

A Dream of Fair Women 524 

Morte D'Arthur 528 



Alfred, Lord TennySPN (1809^1892) (Continued) 

Ulysses . , 532 

Locksley Hall 532 

St. Agnes Eve 537 

Sir Galahad 537 

Break, break, break 538 

Wages 538 

The Higher Pantheism 538 

Maud (XXII) ..........;. 539 

In Memoriam 

Proem, I, XXVII, XXXI, XXXII, 
LIV, LVII, XCVI, CVI, 

CXXX, Epilogue.... :;4o 

Sir John Franklin 543 

To Dante , , 543 

The Silent Voices 543 

Merlin and the Gleam , 543 

Crossiiig the Bar 545 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861) 

Sonnets from the Portuguese (I, VII, 

XIV, XVII, XX, XXI, XXII, 

XXVIII, XLIII). 545 

The Cry of the Children 547 

A Musical Instrument 549 

Robert Browning (181 2-1889) 
Cavalier Tunes 

Marching Along 549 

Give a Rouse 550 

"How They Brought the Good News 

from Ghent to Aix" 550 

Song : Nay but you, who do not love her 551 

Evelyn Hope 551 

Hom.e-Thoughts, from Abroad 552 

Saul 552 

Song : My Star 554 

My Last Duchess , 554 

A Grammarian's Funeral 555 

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower 

Came" 556 

Era Lippo Lippi 559 

One Word More 564 

Abt Vogler , 567 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 569 

Apparitions , 572 

Wanting is — What ? 572 

Never the time and the place 572 

The Epilogue to Asolando 572 

William Makepeace Thackeray (181 i- 
1863) 

The English Humorists : Sterne 573 

Arthur Hugh Clough (1S19-1S61) 

Qua Cursum Ventus 578 

"With Whom is no Variableness" 579 

Easter Day 579 

"Perche Pensa?" 581 

Say not the struggle nought availeth 581 
John Ruskin (1819-1900) 

The Stones of Venice, Vol. II, Chap. IV 582 

The Crown of Wild Olive : Preface 584 

Frederick Locker-Lampson(iS2i-i895) 

To My Grandmother 590 

The Unrealized Ideal 590 



CONTENTS 



XI 



Sidney Dobell (1824-1874) 

America 591 

Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) 

Culture and Anarchy : Sweetness and 

Light S91 

Shakespeare 602 

The Forsaken Merman 602 

To Marguerite 603 

Morality 604 

The Future 604 

Sohrab and Rustum 605 

Philomela 616 

The Scholar Gipsy 617 

The Last Word 620 

Edward Fitzgerald (i 809-1 883) 

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam 621 

Coventry Patmore (i 823-1 896) 

The Angel in the House : Preludes 

Bk. I, Canto III : I. The Lover . . . 623 
Bk. I, Canto VIII : I. Life of Life 623 

11. The Revelation 624 

III. The Spirit's Epochs 624 

The Unknown Eros : The Toys 624 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) 

The Blessed Damozel 624 

Sister Helen 626 

The Ballad of Dead Ladies, from 

Francois Villon 629 

Francesca da Rimini, from Dante 629 

On Refusal of Aid between Nations 630 

The Sonnet 630 

Love-Sight 630 

Love-Sweetness 630 

Mid-Rapture 631 

Soul-Light 631 

Known in Vain 631 

The Landmark 631 

The Choice 632 

Vain Virtues 632 

Lost Daj's 633 

A Superscription 633 

The One Hope 633 



William Morris (1834-1896) 
The Earthly Paradise 

Proem 633 

Prologue 634 

The Lady of the Land 634 

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837- 
1909) 

Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon 640 

The Garden of Proserpine 641 

Itylus 642 

Etude Realiste (I, II, III) 643 

The Salt of the Earth 643 

Sonnets 

On Lamb's Specimens of Dramatic 

Poets 644 

Hope and Fear 644 

After Sunset 644 

George Meredith (1828-1909) 

Love in the Valley 644 

Juggling Jerry 648 

Bellerophon 649 

Lucifer in Starlight 650 

Ask, is love divine 650 

Song of the Songless 650 

Dirge in Woods 650 

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) 

The Prince's Progress : The Bride-Song 650 

A Birthday 651 

Song : When I am dead 651 

The First Day 651 

Remember 652 

Rest 652 

The Lowest Place 652 

James Thomson (1834-1882) 

The City of Dreadful Night 652 

Sunday up the River 653 

Art 654 

Walter Pater (i 839-1 894) 

Style 654 

The Child in the House 657 

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) 

Francois Villon 662 



NOTES 

INDEX OF AUTHORS 

INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES. 



677 
781 
783 



ENGLISH PROSE ANt> POETRY 



EARLY MIDDLE ENGLISH 



THE ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE (c. 1154) 

A MONK OF PETERBOROUGH 

From THE RECORD FOR 1137 



This gaere ^ for ^ the king Stephne ofer sae ^ 
to Normandi, and ther wes * underfangen,^ 
for-thi-that ^ hi ^ uuenden * that he sculde ^ 
ben 1° alsuic " alse ^^ the eom ^^ wes, and for ^ 
he hadde get " his tresor ; ac " he to-deld ^^ it 
and scatered sotlice." Micel ^* hadde Henri 
king gadered gold and sylver, and na ^^ god ^^ 
ne dide me ^^ for his saule ^^ tharof .^ 

Tha ** the king Stephne to Englalande 
com ,2^ tha ^^ macod ^'^ he his gadering ^s aet 
Oxeneford ; and thar he nam ^^ the biscop 
Roger of Sereberi,^" and Alexander biscop of 
Lincol and te ^^ Canceler Roger his neves,^^ 
and dide ^^ aelle in prisun til hi ^ iafen ^* up 
here ^^ castles. Tha ^ the suikes ^^ under- 
gceton ^^ that he milde man was and softe and 
god ^° and na ^^ justise ^* ne dide, tha ^^ diden 
hi '■ alle wunder.^^ Hi ^ hadden him *" man- 
red ^ maked ^'' and athes ^^ suoren *^ ac ^^ 
hi nan ^^ treuthe ne heolden.^ Alle he '^ 
waeron *^ forsworen, and here ^^ treothes for- 
loren ; *^ for aevric *^ rice ''^ man his castles 
makede,*' and agaenes ^° him heolden,^^ and 
fylden ^^ the land ful of castles. Hi suencten ^^ 
suythe ^ the uurecce ^^ men of the land mid ^^ 
castel weorces." 

Tha 2^ the castles uuaren *^ maked, tha ^^ 
fylden hi mid deovles and yvele ^* men. 
Tha ^^ namen ''" hi tha ^^ men the ®^hi wenden ^' 
that ani god ^^ hefden,^^ bathe ^^ be" nihtes 



This year went King Stephen over the sea 
to Normandy and was received there, be- 
cause they thought that he was going to 
be just such as his uncle was, and because 
he still had his uncle's treasure ; but he dis- 
persed it and scattered it foolishly. Much 
had Henry the king gathered of gold and 
sUver, and no good did anyone for his soul by 
means of it. 

When King Stephen came to England, then 
he made his assembly at Oxford ; and there 
he seized the bishop Roger of Salisbury and 
Alexander, bishop of Lincoln, and the Chan- 
cellor Roger, his nephews, and put them all 
in prison tiU they gave up their castles. 
When the traitors perceived that he was a 
mild man and soft and good, and enforced no 
justice, then did they aU wonders. They 
had done homage to him and sworn oaths, 
but they kept no troth. But they were all 
forsworn and their troths were entirely 
abandoned ; for every powerftil man built 
his castles and held against him, and they 
filled the land full of castles. They op- 
pressed grievously the wretched men of the 
land with castle-buHding. 

When the castles were built, then they 
filled them with devUs and evU men. Then 
they seized the men who they thought had 
any property, both by night and by day, 



- as '" uncie 

'** much ^' no ™ good '^^ anyone ^^ soul ^* on account 
of it 2'' when ^^ came ^^ then ^^ made ^ assembly 
^^ seized ^ Salisbury ^^ the ^^ nephews (i.e. the son 
and nephew of Roger of Salisbury) ^^ put ^^ gave 



their ^® traitors ^^ perceived ^ justice, punish- 
lent ^^ strange things, evils *" to him ''^ homage 
keot *^ were *^ entirely aban- 



^ year ^ went ^ sea. ^ was ^ received ^ because "" their ■'" traitors "' perceived ** justice, p 

^ they * weened, thought ^ should ^^ be " just such ment ^^ strange things, evils *" to him ''^ 1 

^2 as ^^ uncle ^'^ yet ^^ but ^^ dispersed '' foolishly ^" oaths ^^ sworn ''^ kept *^ were *^ entirely „ 

'^ much ^^ no ^ good ^^ anyone ^^ soul ^ on account doned ^^ every ^ powerful ^^ built ™ against *' held 

came ^^ then ^^ made ^ assembly ^^ filled ^^ oppressed ^ greatly *^ wretched ^ with 

„,_„ 31 +u„ 32 u„„.„ c-- „ *i s'^ works ^ then ^^ evil ^"seized ^^ those ""-who 

^3 weened, thought ^* property ^^ had ^^ both ^^ by 



t It '^ wnen '■•' came ^" tnen ^' made ^ assembly "^ nlied ""^ oppressed °^ greatly 
seized ^ Salisbury ^^ the ^^ nephews {i.e. the son ^"^ works ^ then ^^ evil ^° seiz 
nd nephew of Roger of Salisbury) ^^ put ^^ gave ^^ weened, thought ^* property 

I 



THE POEMA MORALE 



and be daeies, carlmen ^ and wimmen, and 
diden ^ heom ^ in prisun ef ter ■• gold and 
sylver, and pined '" heom untellendlice ^ 
pining/ f or ne uuaeren ^ nsevre ^ nan martyrs 
swa ^° pined alse ^' hi w^ron. Me '■^ henged ^' 
up bi the fet " and smoked heom mid fuP^ 
smoke. Me henged bi the thumbes, other '■^ 
bi the hefed/'' and hengen ^* bryniges ^^ on 
her 2" fet. Me dide ^ cnotted strenges ^^ 
abuton 2- here 2° hseved ^'' and uurythen ^^ to *'' 
that it gsede ^^ to the haernes.^*^ Hi dyden 
heom in quarterne ^'^ thar ^ nadres ^^ and 
snakes and pades ^"^ waeron inne, and drapen ^^ 
heom swa.^° . . . 

I ne can ne I ne mai ^^ tellen alle the wmi- 
der 2^ ne alle the pines ^* that hi diden 
wrecce ^^ men on ^^ this land ; and that 
lastede tha .xix. wintre ^^ wile ^^ Stephne was 
king, and aevre ^® it was uuerse ^ and uuerse. 



men and women also, and thrust them in 
prison for gold and silver, and tortured them 
with unspeakable tortures, for never were 
any martyrs so tortured as they were. They 
were hanged up by the feet and smoked with 
foul smoke. They were hanged by the 
thumbs, or by the head, and coats of mail were 
hung on their feet. Knotted strings were 
put about their heads and twisted till they 
penetrated to the brains. They put them in 
dungeons in which were adders and snakes and 
toads, and killed them thus 



I cannot and I may not tell all the wonders 

nor all the tortures that they did to wretched 
men in this land ; and that lasted the nineteen 
years while Stephen was king, and ever it 
was worse and worse. 



From THE POEMA MORALE, OR MORAL ODE (c. 1170) 

{Unknown Author) 



Ich ^ a;m elder then ich ^^ wes, a wintre and a 

lore ; "^ 
Ic ^ waelde ^ more thanne ic dude,'* mi wit ah -^ 

to ben more. 
Wei lange ic ■^^ habbe ^^ child ibeon *^ a weorde 

and ech ■** a dede ; 
Theh '^^ ic beo ^° a wintre eald,''^ to ying ^^ I 

eom ^^ a rede.^ 
Unnut ^ lyf ic habb ilaed,^^ and yiet,^'^ me- 

thincth, ic lede ; 
Thanne ic me bethenche," wel sore ic me 

adrede.^* 
Mest '"^ al thaet ic habbe ydon ^° ys idelnesse 

and chilche ; ^^ 
Wel late ic habbe me bithoht, bute ''^ me God 

do milce.''^ 
Fele *'■' ydele word ic habbe iqueden ®^ syth- 

then '''^ ic speke cuthe,^^ 
And fale "^ yunge "^^ dede ido, thet me of- 

thinchet '^^ nuthe."" 10 

^ men ^ put ^ them ■* after {i.e. to obtain) 
^ tortured ^ unspeakable ^ torture * were ^ never 
^° so '^ as ^^ one {i.e. they indefinile) ^^ hanged 
'■* feet '» foul i*^ or '^ head ^^ hung ^* corselets 
(as weights) ^ their ^^ cords ^'■^ about ^' twisted 
^* till ^^ went, penetrated ~^' brains -' prison 
"^^ where ^' adders •'"' toads -'^ killed ^- mii 
^ evils ■''■' tortures ^^ wretched ^^ in ^' yea 



I am older than I was in winters and in 

lore; 
I govern more than e'er I did, my wisdom 

should be more. 
FuU long time have I been a child in word 

and eke in deed ; 
Though I be in winters old, too young am I 

in rede. 
Useless is the life I lead, and long, methinks, 

have led ; 
When I remember me of this, full sore am I 

a-dread. 
Nearly all that I have done is childish and of 

naught ; 
But, save God show me mercy now, too late 

is this my thought. 
Many idle speeches have I spoken since 

speech to me was lent ; 
And many a foolish deed have done, that I 

must now repent. 10 



38 W 



ay 
years 



THE POEMA MORALE 



Al to lome ^ ic habbe agult ^ a weorche ^ and 

ec * a worde ; 
Al to muchel ic habbe ispend, to litel yleid ^ 

an horde. 
Mest ^ al thet me Hcede ^ aer,^ nu hit ^ me 

mislicheth ; ^° 
The " mychel ^^ folyeth ^^ his ywil, him sulfne 

he biswiketh.i* 
Ich mihte habbe bet " idon, hadde ic tho ^^ 

yselthe ; ^^ 
Nu ic wolde, ac ^^ ic ne mei ^^ for elde ^^ ne 

for unhelthe ; ^^ 
Ylde ^^ me is bistolen on, ser ic hit awyste ; ^^ 
Ne mihte ic iseon ^ before me for smeche ^^ 

ne for miste. 
^rwe ^^ Ave beoth ^^ to done god, and to yfele ^^ 

al to thriste ; ^^ | 

More Kie ^^ stent '" man of rnanne thanne him 

do of Criste. 20 

The ^^ wel ne deth ^^ the hwile he mei,^^ wel 

oft hit hym scael ruwen,^^ 
Thaenne ^ hy ^^ mowen sculen ^^ and ripen,^^ 

ther ^^ hi. sr seowen.^" 
Don ec ^ to Gode wet ^^ ye muye,^^ the hwile 

ye buth ^^ a life ; 
Ne hopie no man '^ to muchel to childe ne to 

wyfe ; 
The ^^ him selve foryut ^^ for wife other for 

childe. 
He sceal cume an uvele stede ^ bute *^ hym 

^ God beo milde. 
Sende asch -^ sum god biforen hym, the hwile 

he mei, to heovene ; 
Betere is an elmesse ^^ bifore thenne bedn sefter 

seovene. 
Ne beo the leovre ''^ thene the sulf thi mei *^ ne 

thi maye ™ 
Sot ^^ is the ^^ is othres mannes freond betre 

thene his aye.^^ 30 

Ne hopie ^^ wif to hire were,^* ne war ^^ to his 

wife ; 
Beo " for him sulve aevrich ^^ man, the hwyle 

he beo ^^ alive. 
Wis ^^ is the ^^ him sulfne bithencth ^^ the 

hwile he mote ®^ libbe,^^ 
For sone ®^ wuUeth '^■^- him foryite '^^ the 

fremde ^^ and the sibbe.^^ 



^ all too often ^ sinned ^ deed ■* also ^ laid ® al- 
most ^ pleased * formerly ' it ^^ displeases " who 
' ''■ much ^^ follows ^"^ betrays ^ ^ better ^* then 
' good fortune ^®but '^ may not ^'^age ^^ weak- 
ness ^^ before I knew it ^^ see ^"^ smoke ^^ timid 



most ■ pieasea " lormeriy - it " aispieases wno 
i^much ^'^ follows ^"^ betrays ^^ better ^* then 
^'^ good fortune ^®but '^ may not ^'^age ^^ weak- 
ness ^^ before I knew it ^^ see ^"^ smoke ^^ timid 
^^ are ^^ evil ^^ bold -^ awe, fear ^° arises to ''^ doth 
^^ may ^^ shall repent ^'^ when ^^ they ^"^ shall 



All too often have I sinned in deed and eke 

in word ; 
All too freely have I spent, too little laid in 

hoard. 
Almost all I now mislike of things I liked of 

yore ; 
Who follows over-much his will, betrays him- 
self the more. 
Had fortune only favored me, I might have 

done more good ; 
Now for weakness and for age, I may not, 

though I would. 
Old age is stolen me upon, ere that I it wist ; 
I could not see before me for the smoke and 

for the mist. 
Timid we are in doing good, in evil all too 

bold ; 
More awe of man than awe of Christ doth 

every person hold. 20 

Who doth not well, the while he may, shall 

often rue it sore. 
When comes the time to mow and reap what 

he has sown before. 
Do ye for God the best ye may, the while ye 

are in life ; 
And let no man hope overmuch in child nor 

yet in wife. 
He who doth himself forget for wife or else 

for child 
Shall come into an evil place save God to him 

be mild. 
Let each some good before him send, the while 

he may, to heaven ; 
For better is one alms before than afterward 

are seven. 
And hold not dearer than thyself thy kins- 
man or thy son ; 
Foolish to be another's friend rather than thine 

own. 30 

And let no wife in husband hope, nor husband 

in his wife ; 
Be each man for himself alone, the while he 

is in life. 
Wise is who bethinks himself the while he 

liveth yet ; 
For him will stranger — ay, and friend, soon 

enough forget. 

" reap "s where ^^ sowed ^^ also ^^ what *- let no 
man hope '^^ forgets *Un evil place ^* unless 
4«each ''^one alms •** dearer ■i^ kinsman ^'^ son 
^1 foolish ^2 own ^^ hope not "^'^ man ^* be ^^ every 
^Ms =^«wise 59 who ^^ bethinks "may ''" live 
63 soon ®^ will ^^ forget ^^ stranger ^'^ kinsman 



4 ORRM 

The ^ wel ne deth ^ the hwile he mei,^ ne Who doth not well, the while he may, he shall 

sceal he hwenne he wolde. not when he would ; 

Manies mannes sare iswinch habbeth oft Many a man's sore labor oft cometh to no 

unholde.^ good. 

Ne scolde nan man don a furst,^ ne sclawen ® In doing good let none postpone or ever 

wel to done ; make delay ; 

For mani man bihateth '' wel, the ^ hit for- For many a man doth promise well who yet 

yiteth sone. forgets straightway. 

The man the ^ siker * wule beon to habbe The man who would be safe and sure of having 

Godes blisse, God's own bliss 

Do wel him sulf the hwile he mei, then haveth If he do well the while he may, he verily shall 

he mid iwisse.^ 40 not miss. 40 



ORRM (fi. 1200) 
From THE ORRMULUM 



Nu, ^° brojjerr Wallterr, bro]>err min 

Aff terr ]>e. flseshess kinde ; ^^ 
& brol^err min i ^- Crisstenndom 

purrh fuUuhht " & Jjurrh troww}?e ; ^^ 
& brol^err min i ^^ Godess hus, 

Set o^^ J?e ]?ride ^^ wise,^' 
purrh ]?att witt ^^ hafenn ^^ takenn ba -° 

An 21 reahellboc ^^ to foUahenn,^^ 
Unnderr kanunnkess ^'^ had ^^ & lif , 

Swa summ ^^ Sannt Awwstin sette ; ^^ 
Ice hafe ^^ don swa summ -^ ]?u badd,^^ 

& forjjedd 3° te ^i >in wille. 
Ice hafe ^^ wennd ^^ inntil ^^ Ennglissh 

Goddspelless hallahe lare,^* 
Affterr l^att little witt ^^ tatt ^s me 

Min Drihhtin hafe]?]? lenedd ^' 
pu ]?ohhtesst ^^ tatt ^ itt mihhte wel 

Till ^^ mikeU frame ^° turrnenn, 
Siff ■^^ Ennglissh foUk, forr lufe off Crist, 

Itt wollde ierne ^"^ lernenn, 
& foU^henn 23 itt, & fiUenn ^ itt 

Wi]?l? l^ohht, *^ wij)]? word, wi]?]? dede. 
& forrj)i " 2errndesst '"^ tu l^att ice 

piss werrc '*'' J?e shoUde wirrkenn ; 
& ice itt hafe forjjedd ^ t&,^^ 

Ace ■^^ all l?urrh Cristess hellpe ; 
& unnc birrj) ''^ bajje ''" ])annkenn Crist 

patt itt iss brohht till '■'■'^ ende. 
Ice hafe sammnedd ^^ o ^- ])iss boc 

pa Goddspelless neh ^ alle 



30 



' who ^ doth ^ may * many a man's sore labor 
liath often misfortune * no man should postpone 
^ delay ^ promises * sure ^ then he hath it certainly 
'" now " nature ^^ in ^^ through baptism ^'^ faith 
'■'' on ^^ third ^^ way, degree ^* we two ^^ have ^ both 
^' one 22 rule-book "^ follow ^^ canon's "^^ order 
2'' just as ^ commanded -^ 1 have '^'^ badest ^ ac- 



Now, brother Walter, brother mine 

After the fleshly nature ; 
And brother mine in Christendom 

Through baptism and through fealty ; 
And brother mine in God's own house 

In still another manner, 
In that we two have taken both 

One book of rules to follow, 
Within the life of canonhood, 

Just as St. Austin ordered ; 
As thou didst bid me, I have done, 

Thy will for thee fuliilling ; 
For into English I have turned 

The gospel's holy teaching, 
According to the little wit 

With which my Lord endowed me. 
Thou thoughtest that it might full well 

Be turned to mickle profit 
If English folk, for love of Christ, 

It zealously would study, 
And follow it, and it fulfil. 

With thought, with word, with action. 
And therefore thou didst yearn that I 

This book for thee should render ; 
And I for thee have finished it, 

As Christ the Lord did help me ; 
And now behooves us both thank Christ 

That it is brought to ending. 
I have collected in this book 

Now nearly all the gospels 



30 



complished ^^ thee ^^ turned ^^ into ^* holy lore 
^^ wit, intelligence ^'^ that ^' my Lord has lent 
3* thoughtest ^^ to ''" great benefit ^^ if ^^ eagerly 
■•^ fulfil '•'' with thought ^'^ therefore ^^ desiredst 
■" work ^^ but ''" us two it behooves ^^ both ^^ col- 
lected ^' in ^^ nigh, near 



LAYAMON 



J)att sinndenn ^ o the messeboc ^ 

Inn all )?e aer ^ att messe. 
& a33 ^ affterr ]?e Goddspell stannt ^ 

J)att tatt « te Goddspell mene})J)/ 
patt mann birr]? spellenn ^ to ]?e folic 

Off l?e2§re ^ sawle nede ; 
& set taer tekenn mare inoh ^° 

J)u shallt taeronne " findenn 
Off \>Sitt tatt ^ Cristess hallahe ])ed ^^ 

Birr]? ^^ trowwenn i'' wel & foU^henn.^^ 
Ice hafe sett her o ^® }>iss hoc 

Amang Goddspelless wordess, 
All ]7urrli me sellfenn," mani3 word 

pe rime ^^ swa ^^ to fillenn ; 
Ace Iju shallt finndenn ]?att min word, 

Ea^whcer l?aer ^° itt iss ekedd,^^ 
Maa^ hellpenn ]?a ^ ]3att redenn itt 

To sen & tunnderrstanndenn ^ 
All }?ess te bettre hu Jje^^m birr]? ^* 

pe Goddspell unnderrstanndenn ; 
& forr]?i ^'^ trowwe ice ]?att te -^ birr]? 

Wel }?olenn ^'^ mine wordess, 
EiJwhser l?aer 2° ]?u shallt findenn hemm ^^ 

Amang Godspelless wordess. 



That all the year at mass are found 

Within the holy massbook. 
And aye after the gospel stands 

That which the gospel meaneth, 
Which must be told unto the folk, 

Because the soul doth need it ; 
And still within it thou shalt find 

Enough and more there written 
Of what the holy flock of Christ 
40 Must well believe and follow. 

I have set down here in this book, 

Among ike words of gospel, 
All of myself full many a word, 

To fill the measure merely ; 
But thou shalt find here that my word. 

Wherever it is added, 
May help the people who shall read 

To see and understand too 
The better how it them behooves 
50 To understand the gospel ; 

And therefore trow I that thou must 

Endure my words with patience, 
Wherever thou shalt find them set 

Among the words of gospel. 



40 



50 



LAYAMON (c. 1205) 
From THE BRUT 



Arthur for ^^ to Cornwale 

Mid unimete ferde ; ^" 28530 

Modred that iherde ^^ 

And him togeines heolde ^^ 

Mid unimete ^^ folke. 

Ther weore monie vasie ! ^* 

Uppen there Tambre ^^ 

Heo ^^ tuhten ^'^ to gadere ; 

The stude hatte ^^ Camelford ; 

Ever-mare ilast that like weorde ! "^ 

And at Camelforde wes isomned ^" 

Sixti thusend 

And ma thusend there-to ; '^^ 

Modred wes heore aelder.^^ 

Tha ''^ thiderward gon *■* ride 28540 

Arthur the riche ^^ 

^ are ^ mass-book ^ year ^ always ^ stands 
^ that that, that which " means * that it be- 
hooves one to tell ^ of their ^^ and besides that, 
enough more ^^ therein ^^ holy people ^^ behooves 
" believe ^^ follow ^'^ here in " by myself ^^ rhythm, 
measure ^^ so ^'^ everywhere where -^ added ^ those 
^^ to understand -'' all the better for this how it 
behooves them ^^ therefore ^^ thee ^^ endure, per- 



Arthur went to Cornwall, 

The host with him was countless ; 28530 

Modred heard the tidings 

And took his way against him 

With host no man could number. 

Many there were death-doomed ! 

By the river Tamar 

The troops came together ;_ 

The place was christened Camelford-; 

Forever- more shall last that word ! 

And at Camelford was assembled 

Sixty thousand 

And thousands many more too ; 

Modred was their leader. 

Then thitherward went riding 2S540 

Arthur the royal 

mit ^* them ^^ went ^" with a numberless army 
^^ heard ^^ and went against him ^^ numberless 
^* there were many fey (fated to die) ^^ upon the 
Tamar (a river) ^^ they ^^ came ^^ the place was 
called ^^ ever-more shall last that same word 
(name) ^^ was gathered '*^ and more thousands 
besides ^ was their leader ^^ then ''^ did '^^ great 



LAYAMON 



Mid unimete foike, 
Vaeie thah hit weore.^ 
Uppe there Tambre 
Heo tuhte ^ to-somne ; ^ 
Heven here-marken;'' 
Halden ^ to-gadere ; 
Luken sweord longe,'' 
Leiden o ' the helmen ; 
Fur ut sprengen,^ 28550 

Speren brastlien ; ^ 
Sceldes gonnen scanen/^ 
Scaftes to-breken." • 

Ther faht ^^ al to-somne ^' 
Folc unimete. 
Tambre wes on flode " 
Mid unimete ^^ blode. 
Mon i than fihte 
Non ^^ ther ne mihte 
I-kenne nenne kempe," 
No ^^ wha dude ^^ wurse, no wha bet,^" 
Swa that withe ^^ wes imenged ; ^^ 28562 
For edc ^^ sloh ^^ adun riht, 
Weore he swein,^^ weore he cniht.^^ 
Ther wes Modred of-slawe ^^ 
And idon of lif-dawe ^^ 

29* * * * * * 

* * * in than fihte. 

Ther weoren of-slawe ^'' 

AUe tha snelle,^'' 

Arthures hired-men,^^ 28570 

Heye and lawe,^^ 

And tha Bruttes ^' alle 

Of Arthures borde,^^ 

And alle his fosterlinges ^^ 

Of feole kineriches,^® 

And Arthur forwunded 

Mid wal-spere brade.^^ 

Fiftene he hafde 

Feondliche wunden ; ^ 

Mon mihte i thare lasten '' 28580 

Twa gloven ithraste.*'' 

Tha ''^ nas ther na mare 
I than fehte to lave *^ 
Of twa hundred thusend monnen ^' 
Tha ''^ ther leien ^^ to-hauwen ^^ 
Buten ''^ Arthur the king ane *^ 
And of his cnihtes twcien.'*^ 

' fe3' though they were ^ the}' came ^ together 
"* raised battle-standards ^ rushed " locked long 
swords " laid on, struck upon ^ made fire leap out 
* rattled spears '° shields did shiver '^ shafts broke 
to pieces ^^ fought '^together "a-flood ^^measure- 
less ^^ no man in the fight ^^ recognize no warrior 
'^ nor ^* did ^^ better ^^ conflict ^^ confused ^^ each 



With army unnumbered, 
Doomed though they all were. 

By the river Tamar 
The troops came together; 
Raised their royal standards ; 
Rushed there together ; 
Long swords locked they, 
Laying blows on helmets ; 
Sparks they struck out, 28550 

Spears did rattle ; 
Shields were a-shaking, 
Shafts were a-breaking. 
There fought all together 
Folk beyond counting. 
Tamar was a flood 
With measureless blood. 
Of men in the fight there 
Nobody might there 
Distinguish any warrior, 
Nor who did better, who did worse. 
So was that conflict mingled ; 28562 

For each struck adown right, 
■ Were he yeoman, or were he knight. 
There was Modred stricken. 
And life in him did sicken. 

* * * in that conflict. 

There fell in that battle 

All of the brave ones, 

Arthur's own henchmen, 28570 

The high and the lowly, 

And all the Britons 

Of Arthur's board too, 

And all his fosterlings 

Of foreign nations many. 

And Arthur sorely wounded 

With broad blade of war-spear. 

Fifteen times was he 

Fiendishly wounded ; 

Even into the smallest 28580 

Two gloves might one have thrust. 

Then were there in that battle 
Left among the living 
Of two hundred thousand soldiers 
Who lay there slaughtered 
But Arthur the king only. 
And two of his warriors. 

2'* struck ^^ yeoman ^" knight *' slain -* and put from 
life-daj's ^® A line or more is missint; here. ^ the 
brave '^^ retainers ^^ high and low ^^ the Britons 
^■' table ^^ wards ^^ many kingdoms ^'' with broad 
slaughter-spear ^^ dreadful wounds ^^ in the least 
'"' thrust *' then ^ in the fight remaining ^^ men 
^■* who *^ lay *" hewed to pieces *'' but *^ alone *^ two 



THE BRUT 



Arthur wes for-wunded 
Wunder ane swithe.^ 

Ther to him com a cnave ^ 28590 

The ^ wes of his cunne ; * 
He wes Cadores sune, 
The Eorles of Cornwaile. 
Constantin hehte ^ the cnave ; 
He wes than ® kinge deore. 
Arthur him lokede on, 
Ther he lai on folden,^ 
And thas word ^ seide 
Mid sorhfulle heorte : 

" Constantin, thu art wilcume ! 28600 

Thu weore ^ Cadores sone ! 
Ich the bitache here ^^ 
Mine kineriche ; " 
And wite ^^ mine Bruttes 
A to thines hfes ; " 
And hald heom " alle tha lawen ^^ 
Tha habbeoth istonden a mine dawen,^^ 
And alle tha lawen gode 
Tha bi Utheres dawen stode. 
And ich wuUe varen ^^ to Avalun 28610 
To vairest ^^ aire ^^ maidene, 
To Argante there ^o quene, 
Alven swithe sceone ; ^^ 
And heo ^^ seal mine wunden 
Makien alle isunde,^^ 
Al hal ^* me makien 
Mid haleweiye drenchen.^^ 
And seothe ^^ ich cumen wuUe 
To mine kineriche ^'^ 

And wunien ^^ mid Brutten 28620 

Mid muchelere wunne." ^^ 

^fne than worden ^° 
Ther com of se wenden ^^ 
That wes an sceort bat lithen,^^ 
Sceoven mid uthen ; ^^ 
And twa wimmen ther-inne 
Wunderliche idihte."*^ 
And heo nomen Arthur anan,^'' 
And an eovste hine vereden,''*' 
And softe hine adun leiden, 28630 

And forth gunnen lithen.^^ 

Tha ^^ wes hit iwurthen ^' 
That Merlin seide whilen,*' 
That weore unimete care ^^ 

^ wondrously much - young man ^ who * kin 
^ was named ® to the ' the ground * these 
words ^ thou wert ^^ I commit to thee here 
^^ kingdom ^^ defend ^^ ever during thy life 
^^ keep for them ^^ customs, laws ^° that have 
stood in my days ^'^ I will go ^^ fairest ^^ of all 
^^ the ^^ elf very beautiful ^^ she ^ well ^* whole 



28590 



28600 



28610 



Arthur was wounded 
Wondrous severely. 

To him came a child then 
Who was of his kindred ; 
He was Cador's first-born, 
Who Earl was of Cornwall. 
Constantine his name was; 
He was to the king dear. 
Arthur looked upon him, 
As he lay on the ground there, 
And these words spake he 
With heart full of sorrow : 
" Constantine, welcome art thou 1 
Thou wert Cador's first-born ! 
To thee do I commit here 
The care of my kingdom ; 
And guard well my Britons 
Ever whilst thou livest ; 
And keep thou all the customs 
That loved were in my life-time, 
And all the customs splendid 
That Uther's'reign attended. 
And I will fare to Avalon 
To the fairest of all maidens, 
Where Queen Argante tarries, 
Most beautiful of fairies ; 
And she shall every wound 
Make both whole and sound, 
All whole shall she make me 
With health-giving potions. 
And come shall I hereafter 
Back to my kingdom 
And abide with my Britons 
With bliss forever. " 

E'en as he was speaking 
There came from sea speeding 
A very small boat gliding 
Before the waves a-riding ; 
And women twain within it 
Wondrously attired. 
And they raised up Arthur anon. 
And aboard rapidly bore him. 
And adown softly they set him, 
And forth went they sailing. 

Then was fulfilled there 
What Merlin said aforetime, 
That infinite grieving 



^° with healing draughts ^^ afterwards ^'^ kingdom 
^^ dwell ^^ with great joy ^'^ even with these words 
^^ from the sea moving ^^ that was a short boat 
gliding ^^ impelled by the waves ^"^ wondrously 
attired ^^ they took Arthur at once ^® and in haste 
bore him ^''^ did glide ^* then ^^ fulfilled ''° whilom, 
formerly ^ that there should be measureless sorrow 



28620 



28630 



THE ANCREN RIWLE 



Of Arthures forth-fare.^ 

Bruttes ileveth yete ^ 
That he bon on hve * 
And wunnien ^ in Avalun 
Mid fairest aire ^ alven; 
And lokieth evere Bruttes yete 28640 

Whan Arthur cumen hthe.^ 

Nis naver '^ the mon iboren 
Of naver nane burde icoren * 
The cunne ^ of than sothe ^^ 
Of Arthur sugen mare." 
Bute while ^^ wes an witeye ^^ 
Ma^rhn ihate," 
He bodede ^^ mid worde — 
His quithes ^^ weoren sothe " — 
That an Arthur sculde yete 28650 

Cum Anglen to fulste.^^ 



Should be at Arthur's leaving. 

Britons believe ever 
That still he is living 
And fostered in Avalon 
With the fairest of aU fairies ; 
And ever hope the Britons 28640 

For Arthur's coming hither. 

Was never the man born 
• Of mother on lucky morn 
Wlio can of the true tale 
Of Arthur tell us further. 
But once there was a wizard, 
Merlin they caUed him, 
With words he predicted — 
His sayings were truthful — 
That an Arthur should one day 28650 

Come England to succour. 



From THE ANCREN RIWLE ^^ (c. 1225) 

{Unknown Author) 
NUNS MAY KEEP NO BEAST BUT A CAT 



Ye, mine leove -° slistren,^^ ne schulen ^^ hab- 
ben 23 no best ^^ bute kat one." Ancre ^^ thet 
haveth eihte ^' thiincheth "^^ bet ^^ husewif ,^° ase 
Marthe was, then ancre ; ^^ ne none-weis ^i ne 
mei heo ^" beon ^^ Marie mid grithfulnesse ^* of 
heorte. Vor theonne ^^ mot ^'^ heo thenchen " 
of the kues ^^ foddre and of heordemonne ^^ 
huire,'*° oluhnen ^^ thene ^^ heiward,^^ warien '^* 
hwon '*'' me ^^ piint ^^ hire, and yelden,''^ 
thauh,^^ the hermes.^ Wat ^^ Crist, this is 
lodlich ^2 thing hwon ■*= me ''^ maketh mone ^^ 
in tune ^ of ancre ^^ eihte.^'^ Thauh,"*^ yif ^^ 
eni mot ^''' nede habben " ku, loke ^^ thet heo ^- 
none monne ne eilie '"^ ne ne hermie ; ^° ne thet 
hire thouht ne beo ''^ nout ther-on ivestned.*^- 
Ancre ne ouh ^^ nout to habben ^^ no thing thet 
drawe '^ utward hire heorte. 

None cheffare ^^ ne drive ye. Ancre thet 
is cheapild,'"''' heo cheapeth ''' hire soule the 
chepmon ^^ of hcUe. 

Ne wite ^^ ye nout in oure "° huse "^ of other 

^ death - believe yet ^ is ali\-c ^ dwells ^ of all 
^ shall come ^ is never * of never no {i.e. of no) 
lady chosen ^ who can ^^ the truth " say more 
^2 once ^^ wizard ^^ named ^* announced ^° savings 



true '* come for a help to the English 
' dear ^^ sisters ^^ shall ^ have ^ 



"The 
Nuns' Rule ^° dear ^^ sisters ^^ shall ^ have ^^ beast 
^^ only -® a nun ^^ property '* seems ^^ rather 
^° housewife ^^ no-ways ^^ she ^^ be ^* peacefulness 



Ye, my dear sisters, shall have no beast but 
a cat only. A nun that has property seems 
rather a housewife, as Martha was, than a 
nun ; and in no wise may she be Mary, with 
peacefulness of heart. For then must she 
think about the cow's fodder and the herds- 
men's wages, flatter the constable, curse 
when the cow is put in the pound, and pay 
the damages nevertheless. God knows, it 
is a hateful thing when complaint is made in 
the village of a nun's property. However, 
if anyone must needs have a cow, let her see 
to it that it disturbs or harms no man ; and 
that her heart be not fastened upon it. A 
nun ought to have nothing that will draw her 
heart outward to the world. 

Drive ye no bargains. A nun that is a 
bargainer sells her soul to the merchant of 
heU. 

Keep ye not in your house any of other 



^^ then 36 must ^^ think ^s cow's '^ herdsmen's 
^0 hire ^^ i3atter "- the ^^ heyward, bailiff ^ curse 
"•^ when ■*'' one '*^ impounds ''^ pay '*^ nevertheless 
^ damages ^^ knows ^^ hateful ^^ complaint *■* town, 
farm ^^ a nun's ^''^ if " have ^^ look ^^ disturb 
•^^ harm ^^ be '^- fastened ^^ ought '"'' may draw 
^^ bargain ^^ bargainer ^^ sells ^^ tradesman 
^^ keep, take care of "" your "^ house 



KING HORN 



monnes thinges, ne eihte,^ ne clothes ; ne nout 
ne undervo ^ ye the chirche vestimenz, ne 
thene ^ caliz,'* bute-yif ^ strencthe ^ hit makie/ 
other ^ muchel eie ; ^ vor of swiiche " witunge ^^ 
is ikumen ^^ muchel iivel ^^ ofte-sithen." 



men's things, either property or clothes ; and 
do not receive the church vestments or the 
chalice, unless compulsion or great fear cause 
you to do so ; for of such custody has come 
great evil oftentimes. 



From KING HORN (c. 1250) 
{Unknown Author) 



AUe beon he ^^ blithe 
That to my song lythe ! ^^ 
A sang ihc schal you singe 
Of Murry the kinge. 4 

King he was bi weste ^'^ 
So longe so hit laste. 
Godhild het ^^ his quen ; 
Fairer ne mihte non ben.^^ 8 

He hadde a sone that het ^^ Horn ; 
Fairer ne mihte non beo born, 
Ne no rein upon birine,^" 
Ne sunne upon bischine.^^ 1 2 

Fairer nis non thane he was ; 
He was brigt so the glas, 
He was whit so the flur, 
Rose-red was his colur.^^ i5 

In none kinge-riche ^^ 
Nas non his Uiche.^'* 20 

Twelf feren "^^ he hadde 
That he with him ladde, ^s 
Alle riche mannes sones, 
And alle hi were faire gomes ^^ 24 

With him for to pleie. 
And mest he luvede tweie ; ^^ 
That on hun het ^9 Hathulf child, 
And that other FikenUd. 28 

Athulf was the beste 
And Fikenylde the werste. 

Hit was upon a someres day, 
Also ^° ihc you telle may, 3 2 

Murri the gode king 
Rod on his pleing ^^ 
Bi the se side, 

Ase he was woned ^^ ride.^ 36 

He fond bi the stronde, 
Arived on his londe, 40 

Schipes fiftene, 



Hhe 



^ property ^ receive 
® strength, necessity ' 
^^ such ^^ guarding ^^ come 



^ chalice ^ unless 

^ make, cause * or ^ fear 

13 gyji 14 oft-times 



^" such *^ guarding ^^ come ^'* evil ^* oft-times 
^^ they ^^ listen ^^ in the west ^^ was named ^^ fairer 



Joy to none be wanting 
Who listens to my chaunting ! 
A song I shall you sing 
Of Murry the king. 4 

King he was i' th' west 
While his rule did last. 
Godhild was his queen ; 
Fairer might not be seen. 8 

He had a son whose name was Horn ; 
Fairer might there none be born. 
Nor rain rain on such a one. 
Nor upon such shine the sun. 12 

None is fairer than he was ; 
He was bright as the glass. 
As the flower he was white, 
Red as rose his color bright. 1 6 

Within no kingdom great 
Could be found his mate. 20 

Twelve companions had he 
That ever with him led he; 
Each was a noble's son, 
And each was a fitting one 24 

To share in his playing. 
Two loved he beyond saying ; 
The one was called Hathulf child, 
And the other Fikenild. 28 

Athulf was the best 
And Fikenild the worst. 

It was upon a summer's day. 
As I to you the story say, 3 2 

Murry the noble king 
Rode in his pleasuring 
By the water-side. 

As he was wont to ride. 36 

He found by the strand there, 
Arrived in his land there, 40 

Ships fifteen all told 

might none be "^ nor any rain rain upon ^^ shine 
^^ After this line other MSS. insert two other lines. 
^^ kingdom ^^ like ^^ companions ^® led ^'' fellows 
2* two ^* was named ^^ as ^^ in his sport "^ wont 



lO 



KING HORN 



With Sarazins kene.^ 

He axede what hi sohte ^ 

Other to londe brohte. 44 

A payn ^ hit of herde ■* 

And hym wel sone answer de, 

"Thi lend- folk we schulle slon ^ 

And alle that Crist leveth ^ upon, 48 

And the selve ^ rigt anon ; 

Ne schaltu ^ todai henne ^ gon." 

The kyng ligte of his stede, 

For tho ^^ he havede nede, 5 2 

And his gode knigtes two ; 

Al to fewe he hadde tho.^" 

Swerd hi " gunne ^^ gripe 

And to-gadere smite. 56 

Hy " smyten ^^ under schelde, 

That sume hit yfelde." 

The king hadde al to fewe 

Togenes so vele schrewe." 60 

So fele ^^ mihten ythe ^^ 

Bringe hem thre to dithe.^* 

The pains ^^ come to londe 
And neme ^° hit in here honde. 64 

That folc hi gunne quelle ^^ 
And churchen for to feUe. 
Ther ne moste libbe ^^ 
The fremde ^ ne the sibbe,'^^ 68 

Bute hi here lawe asoke ^* 
And to here ^^ toke. ^ 

Of aUe wymmanne 
Wurst was Godhild thanne. 72 

For Murri heo weop ^^ sore 
And for Horn yute ^^ more.^^ 
He ^° wenten ut of haUe, 77 

Fram hire maidenes aUe. 
, Under a roche of stone 
Ther heo ^° livede alone. 80 

Ther heo '° servede Gode, 
Agenes the paynes ^^ forbode ; ^^ 
Ther he ^^ servede Criste, 
That no payn hit ne wiste.^^ 84 

Evere heo bad ^* for Horn ChUd 
That Jesu Crist him beo myld. 

Horn was in paynes honde 
With his feren ^^ of the londe. 88 

Muchel was his fairhede,^" 
For Jhesu Crist him makede. 
Payns him wolde slen ^^ 
Other al quic fien.^* 92 



Of Saracens full bold. 

He asked them what they sought 

Or else to land brought. 44 

A pagan there beside 

At once to him replied : 

"All thy people we shall slay 

And aU who hold with Christ this day, 48 

And thyself without delay ; 

Hence shalt thou not go away.'' 

The king sprang from his steed then, 

For surely he had need then, 52 

And with him true knights two — 

Of men he had too few. 

Swords in hand they took 

And together struck. 56 

They smote so under shield 

That some feU in the field. 

The king had aU too few 

Against this evil crew. 60 

So many might easily 

Put to death these three. 

The pagans came to land 
And seized it in their hand. 64 

The people they did kiU 
And churches spoil at wiU. 
There none alive might go, 
Kinsman no more than foe, 68 

But who his faith forsook 
And that of pagan took. 

Of aU earthly women 
Saddest was Godhild then. 72 

For Murry wept she sore 
And for Horn yet more. 
She went out of the haU, 77 

Leaving her maidens aU. 
Under a rock of stone 
There lived she aU alone. 80 

To sei-ve God was she glad, 
Though the pagans it forbade ; 
And there she served Christ too. 
And naught the pagans knew. 84 

EA^er she prayed for Horn Child 
That Jesus Christ be to him mild. 

Horn was in pagans' hand 
With his fellows of the land. 88 

Beauty great had he. 
As Christ would have it be. 
The pagans wished to slay him 
Or else alive to flay him. 92 



^ bold ^ they sought ' pagan * heard * slay 
* believe ^ thyself ^ thou shalt not ^ hence ^^ then 
^^ they ^^ did " smote ^'' felled ^^ against so many 
wicked ^* many ^^ easily ^* death '^ pagans ^^ took 
^' did kill ^^ there might not live ^^ foreigner 



^■^ kinsman ^^ unless they forsook their faith 

28 ,,/»<- i^ See note on 1. 16. 

^ prayed 



^^ theirs ^' she wept ^^ yet 

^'^ she ^^ pagans' ^^ prohibition ^^ knew 

■'^ companions ^"^ fairness ^' slay ^* flay alive 



KING HORN 



II 



Gef his fairnesse nere,^ 

The children alle aslav/e ^ were. 

Thanne spak, on Admirald, 
Of wordes he was bald,^ 96 

"Horn, thu art wel kene/ 
And that is wel isene ; ^ 
Thu art gret and strong, 
Fair and evene long.^ 100 

Thu schalt waxe more '' 
Bi fulle seve * yere, 
Gef thu mote ^ to live ^^ go — 
And thine feren " also. 104 

Gef hit so bi-falle. 
Ye scholde slen ^^ us alle ; 
Tharvore thu most to stere,^^ 
Thu and thine if ere ; ^^ 108 

To schupe schuUe ye funde ^^ 
And sinke to the grunde. ^^ 
The se you schal adrenche ; ^® 
Ne schal hit us noht of-thinche," 112 
For if thu were alive. 
With swerd other with knive 
We scholden alle deie, 
And thi fader deth abeie." ^^ 116 

The children hi brohte to stronde, 
Wringinde here honde,^^ 
Into schupes borde 

At the furste worde. 1 20 

Ofte hadde Horn beo wo,^'' 
Ac 2^ nevere wurs than him was tho.^^ 122 
The se bigan to flowe 
And Hornchild to rowe. 
The se that schup so faste drof. 
The children dradde ther of ; 
Hi wenden to-wisse -^ 
Of here lif to misse, 
Al the day and al the niht 
TU hit sprang dai liht, 
TU Horn say ^^ on the stronde 
Men gon in the londe. 
"Feren," " quath he, "yinge, 
Ihc 2^ telle you tithinge. 
Ihc here fogeles ^"^ singe 
And that gras him springe. 
Blithe beo we on lyve, 
Ure schup is on ryve." ^'^ 
Of schup hi gunne funde ^^ 
And setten fout ^^ to grunde.^" 

Bi the se side 

^ \i it were not for his beauty ^ slain ^ bold 
* brave ^ very evident ^ of good height ^ greater 
■* seven ^ mayst ^^ alive " companions ^^ slay 
^^ go to ship " go ^^ bottom ^^ drown " repent 



128 



132 



136 



140 



144 



Had he not been so fair. 

The children all had perished there. 

An admiral then foretold. 
In speaking he was bold : 96 

"Horn, valour is in thee, 
As any man can see ; 
Thou art now large and strong, 
Fair and of body long. 100 

Thou shalt grow ever greater 
For seven years or better, 
If thou alive may go — 
And thy comrades also. 104 

If so it should befaU, 
You would surely slay us all ; 
Therefore thou must to sea. 
Thou and thy company ; 108 

To ship now shall you go, 
And sink to the ground below ; 
The sea shall you swallow ; 
Nor shall remorse us follow, 112 

For if we gave you life. 
With sword or else with knife 
We aU should soon be dead. 
And thy sire's death repaid. 116 

They brought the boys to the shore. 
Wringing their hands fuU sore. 
On shipboard they thrust them, 
No longer would they trust them. 120 
Oft had Horn suffered woe. 
But never worse than he then did know. 122 
The sea began a- flowing 
And Horn Child a-rowing. 128 

The sea so fast the ship did drive. 
No hope the boys had to* survive. 
They thought without a doubt 
Their lives would soon go out, 132 

AU the day and all the night 
Till there sprang daylight, 
Till Horn saw on the strand 
Men walking in the land. 136 

"Comrades," said he, "true, 
Good news I teU to you. 
I hear the birds a- singing 
And the grass a-springing. 140 

Let us be glad once more, 
Our ship has come to shore." 
From the ship they went to land 
And set foot upon the strand. 144 

By the water side 

^* pay for ^^ wringing their hands ^^ been sad 
2^ but ^2 then See note on 1. 16. ^^ they expected 
certainly ^^ saw ^5 1 26 birds "" shore ^ did go 
2^ foot ^° groimd 



12 



KING HORN 



Hi^ leten that schup ride. 

Thanne spak him Child Horn, 

In Suddene he was iborn, 148 

"Schup, bi the se flode 

Daies have thu gode ; 

Bi the se brinke 

No water the na drinke. ^ 152 

Gef thu cume to Suddenne, 

Gret thu wel of myne kenne ; 156 

Gret thu wel my moder, 

Godhild, quen the gode. 

And seie the paene ^ kyng, 

Jesu Cristes withering,"* 160 

That ihc ^ am hoi and fer ^ 

On this lond arived her ; 

And seie that hi ^ schal fonde ^ 

The dent of myne honde." 164 



They let the ship ride. 
Then up spake Child Horn, 
In Suddene he was born : 
"Ship, by the sea flood 
May thou have days good ; 
By the sea brink 
May thee no water sink. 
To Suddene if thou come. 
Greet well my kin at home ; 
Greet well my mother dear, 
Godhild, queen without peer. 
And tell the pagan kmg, 
Hatefvil to Christ in everything, 
That I am whole and sound 
Landed' on this ground ; 
And say that he shall feel 
The blow my hand shaU deal." 



152 
156 

160 



Aylbrus wende ^ hire fro ; 
Horn in halle fond he tho ^'^ 
Bifore the kyng on benche 
Wyn for to schenche." 388 

"Horn," quath he, "so hende,^^ 
To bure ^^ nu thu wende ^^ 392 

After mete stille 
With Rymenhild to duelle.^^ 
Wordes suthe ^^ bolde 
In herte thu hem holde. 396 

Horn, beo me wel trewe ; 
Ne schal hit the nevre rewe." ^^ 

Horn in herte leide 
Al that he him seide. 400 

He yeode ^^ in wel rigte 
To Rymenhild the brigte. 
On knes he him sette,^^ 
And sweteliche hure grette.^" 404 

Of his feire sigte 
Al the bur gan ligte. 
He spac f aire speche ; 
Ne dorte ^^ him noman teche. 408 

"Wel thu sitte and softe, 
Rymenhild the brigte, 
With thine Maidenes sixe 
That the sitteth nixte ! 22 412 

Kinges stuard ure ^^ 
Sende me in to bure. 
With the speke ihc scholde ; 
Seie^' me what thu woldest. 416 

Seie, and ich schal here, 
What thi wille were." 

* they ^ drown ^ pagan '* enemy ■> I " sound ^ he 
' experience * went ^^ then ^^ pour ^^ courteous 
^3 bower '* go ^^ remain, be ^^ very ^'^ repent 



Aylbrus went from her to the hall, 
Where Horn did serve before them all 
To the king upon the bench 
Wine his thirst to quench. 3S8 

"Horn," said he, "my friend. 
To bower must thou wend 392 

In secret after meat 
Rymenhild to greet. 
Speeches very bold 

In heart thou shaft hold. 396 

Horn, to me be true. 
And ne'er shalt thou it rue." 

Horn in heart has laid 
All he to him said. 40° 

In he went forthright 
To Rymenhild the bright. 
He knelt there at her feet, 
And sweetly did her greet. 404 

Of his lovely sight 
The bower grew all bright. 
He spoke with courteous speech — 
Him needed no man teach: 408 

" Sit thou in weal aright, 
Rymenhild the bright. 
With handmaidens twice three 
That ever sit with thee ! 41 2 

The steward of our king 
A message did me bring : 
To bower should I seek 
To hear what thou wouldst speak. 416 
Speak and tell to me 
Thy will, whatso it be." 

IS went 13 he kneeled 20 greeted 21 needed 22 that 
sit nearest thee ^3 our 2-» tell 



KING HORN 



13 



Rymenhild up gan stonde 
And tok him by the honde. 420 

Heo sette him on pelle, ^ 
Of wyn to drinke his fuUe.^ 
Heo makede him faire chere 
And tok him abute the swere.* 
Ofte heo him custe,'' 

So wel so hire luste.^ 426 

"Horn," heo sede, "withute strif, 437 
Thu schalt have me to thi wif. 
Horn, have of me rewthe,^ 
And pHgt ^ me thi trewthe." 440 

Horn tho him bithogte 
What he speke migte. 
"Crist," quath he, "the wisse,^ 
And yive ^ the hevene bUsse 444 

Of thine husebonde, 
Wher he beo in londe ! 
Ihc am ibore to lowe 
Such wimman to knowe. 448 

Ihc am icome of thralle, 
And fundling bifalle.^" 
Ne feoUe " hit the of cunde ^ 
To spuse ^^ beo me bunde.^* 452 

Hit nere no fair wedding 
Bitwexe a thral and a king." 

Tho gan Rymenhild mis-lyke, 
And sore gan to sike.^^ 456 

Armes heo gan buge ; ^^ 
Adun he ^^ feol iswoge.^* 

Horn in herte was ful wo, 
And tok hire on his armes two. 460 

He gan hire for to kesse, 
Wel ofte mid ywisse.^^ 
"Lemman," ^"^ he sede, "dere, 
Thin herte nu thu stere.^^ 464 

Help me to knigte, 
Bi al thine migte, 
To my lord the king. 
That he me yive dubbing. 468 

Thanne is mi thralhod 
Iwent ^^ in to knigthod, 
And i schal wexe more. 
And do, lemman, thi lore." ^^ 472 

Rymenhild, that swete thing, 
Wakede of hire swowning.^* 
"Horn," quath heo, "wel sone 
That schal beon idone ; 476 

Thu schal beo dubbed knigt 
Are ^^ come seve nigt. 
Have her this cuppe, 

^ skin, rug ^ fill ^neck ^kissed ^pleased ''pity 
'^ plight * direct ^ give ^'^ chanced " it would not 
suit ^^ nature ^^ spouse ^* bound ^^ sigh ^^ did bow 



Rymenhild up did stand 
And took him by the hand. 420 

On couch she set him fine, 
To drink his fill of wine ; 
She gave him welcome true 
And arms about him threw ; 
Full oft she did him kiss. 
Her joy was most in this. 426 

"Horn," she said, "without all strife, 437 
Thou shaft have me as thy wife. 
Horn, have of me ruth 
And plight to me thy truth." 440 

Horn in his heart did seek 
What words he then might speak. 
"May Christ," said he, "now guide thee ! 
And heaven's bliss betide thee 444 

Of thy husband free, 
Where'er in land he be ! 
But I am born too low 
Such a woman's love to know. 448 

I come of thralls, God wot ; 
A foundling's was my lot. 
Befits thee not by kind 
Thyself to me to bind. 452 

It were no fit wedding 
Betwixt a thrall and a king." 

Rymenhild was grieved thereby 
And sore began to sigh. 456 

Her arms slipped strengthless down. 
And there she fell a-swown. 

Horn such woe coiild nowise brook 
And in his arms the maiden took. 460 
And then he did her kiss, 
Full oft and oft, i-wis. 
"Sweetheart," said he, "dear, 
Thy heart now must thou steer. 464 

Help me become a knight. 
Truly, with all thy might, 
To my lord, the king. 
That he me grant dubbing. 468 

Then shall my thrallhood 
Be changed to knighthood, 
And I grow greater stUI, 
And do, sweetheart, thy will." 472 

Rymenhild, that sweetest thing, 
Wakened then from her swooning. 
"Horn," quoth she, "full soon 
That shall aU be done ; 476 

Thou shalt be dubbed a knight 
Within this sevennight. 
This cup do thou now bear 

^^ she ^^ a-swoon ^^ very often indeed ^^ sweet- 
heart ^^ direct, control ^^ turned ^^ teaching 
^^ swooning ^^ ere 



314 



NICHOLAS DE GUILDFORD 



And this ring ther-uppe/ 480 

To Aylbrus the stuard, 

And se he holde foreward.^ 

Seie ^ ich him biseche, 

With loveliche speche 484 

That he adun falle 

Bifore the king in halle 

And bidde * the king arigte 

Dubbe the to knigte. 488 

With selver and with golde 

Hit wurth ^ him wel iyolde.® 

Crist him lene spede ^ 

Thin erende to bede." * 492 



And this ring so fair, 
To Aylbrus bear them both 
And bid him keep his oath. 
Tell him I him beseech 
That he with fairest speech 
Upon his knees do fall 
Before the king in haU 
And pray the king aright 
Thee to dub as knight. 
With silver and with gold 
Shall his reward be told. 
Christ him grant good skill 
Well to obtain thy will ! ' ' 



480 



484 



492 



NICHOLAS DE GUILDFORD (?) (fl. 1250) 
THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE 



Ich ^ was in one sumere dale/" 

In one swithe digele hale," 

I-herede ^^ ich holde grete tale ^^ 

An ule and one nigtingale. 

That plait ^"^ was stif and stare and strong. 

Sum wile ^^ softe, and lud among ; ^^ 

And aither ^^ agen other swal,^^ 

And let that vule mod ut al.^^ 

And either ^^ seide of otheres custe ^^ 

That alre-worste -^ that hi wuste ; ^^ 

And hure and hure ^^ of otheres songe 

Hi -•* heolde plaiding swithe -^ stronge. 

The nigtingale bi-gon the speche, 
In one hurne -° of one beche ; 
And sat up one vaire bohe," 
Thar were abute ^^ blosme i-nohe,^' 
In ore waste ^° thicke hegge, 
I-meind mid spire ^^ and grene segge. 
Heo ^^ was the gladur vor ^^ the rise,^'* 
And song a vele cunne wise.^^ 
Bet thuhte the drem ^^ that he ^^ were 
Of harpe and pipe, than he ^^ nere,"* 
Bet thuhte ^^ that he ^^ were i-shote 
Of harpe and pipe than of throte. 

Tho ^^ stod on old stoc thar bi-side, 
Thar tho *^ ule song hire tide,^^ 
And was mid ivi al bi-growe, 
Hit was thare ule carding-stowc*' 



^ besides ^ agreement ^ saj'' 
paid '' grant success ® present 



pray 
9 J 10 



^ shall be 
a summer 
dale " a very secret corner ^^ heard ^^ talk ^** strife 
^^ while ^^ at times ^^ each '* swelled ^" the foul 
spirit all out ^° qualities '^^ the very worst " knew 
^^ and indeed and indeed ^^ they ^'^ very ^^ corner 



As I was in a summer dale, 

Within a very secret vale, 

I heard of talking a great tale 

Betwixt an owl and a nightingale. 

The strife was stiff and stark and strong ; 

Sometimes 'twas soft, then loud, their song. 

Either against the other swelled. 

Let out the rage that in her dwelled. 

And each said of the other's ways 

The worst she knew to her dispraise ; 10 

And specially of each other's song 

They had a quarrel very strong. 

The nightingale began the speech. 
Snug in a corner of a beech ; 
She sat upon a pretty bough. 
There were about her blossoms enow. 
All in a lonely, thickset hedge, 
Tangled with shoots and green with sedge. 
She was the gladder for the sprays. 
And sang in many kinds of ways. 20 

It rather seemed the sound I heard 
Was harp and pipe than song of bird ; 
For rather seemed the sound to float 
From harp and pipe than from bird's throat. 

There stood an old stump there beside, 
Wherefrom the owl in her turn cried ; 
It was with ivy overgrown. 
And there the owl dwelled all alone. 

^" a fair bough ^* about -® enough ^^ a solitary 
^^ mixed with sprouts ^" she ^^ for ^* spray '^ and 
sang in many kinds of ways ^'^ the sound seemed 
rather ^^ it ^^ was not ^^ it seemed rather ^ then 
■*^ where the ^ in her turn '^^ tlie owl's home 



THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE 



15 



The nihtingale hi ^ i-seh. 
And hi ^ bi-heold and over-seh,^ 30 

And thuhte wel vule ^ of thare ule, 
For me hi halt * lothUch ^ and fule. 
"Unwiht," ^ heo sede, "awei thu fleo ! 
Me is the wers ^ that ich the sec ; 
I-wis ^ for thine vule lete ^ 
Wel oft ich mine song for-lete ; ^^ 
Min heorte at-flith/^ and fait ^'^ mi tunge, 
Wonne ^^ thu art to me i-thrunge." . 
Me luste bet speten ^^ thane singe, 
Of ^^ thine fule gogelinge." " 40 

Theos ule abod fort ^® hit was eve, 
Heo ne mihte no leng bileve/^ 
Vor hire heorte was so gret,-° 
That wel neh ^^ hire fnast at-schet ; ^^ 
And warp ^^ a word thar-after longe : 
"Hu thincthe -'' nu bi mine songe? 
Wenst -^ thu that ich ne cunne ^^ singe 
Theh ^^ ich ne cunne ^^ of writelinge ? ^^ 
I-lome ^° thu dest ^^ me grame,^'^ 
And seist me bothe teone ^^ and schame ; 50 
Gif ^^ ich the heolde on min vote,^^ 
So hit bi-tide ^® that ich mote ! ^' 
And thu were ut of thine rise,^^ 
Thu scholdest singe an other wise. 



The nightingale her soon espied, 
And looked at her with scornful pride. 30 
She thought but meanty of the owl, 
For men it loathly deem and foul. 
"Monster," she said, "away with thee! 
The worse for me that thee I see ! 
Verily for thy ugly look, 
I oftentimes my song forsook. 
My tongue is mute, my heart takes flight, 
When thou appear est in my sight. 
I rather wish to spit than sing, 
At sound of thy foul sputtering." 40 

The owl abode till eventide, 
No longer could she then abide, 
So swollen was her heart with wrath 
That she could scarcely get her breath ; 
And still she made a speech full long : 
"How think'st thou now about my song.'* 
Think'st thou to sing I have no skill 
Merely because I cannot trill ? 
Oft am I angered by thy blame. 
Thou speakest to my hurt and shame ; 50 
If I once held thee in my claw, — 
Would that I might here in this shaw! — 
And thou wert down from off thy spray, 
Then should'st thou sing another way ! 



"Yet thu me seist of other thinge, 

And telst that ich ne can noht singe, 310 

Ac ^® al mi reorde ^° is woning,"*^ 

And to i-here grislich ''- thing. 

That nis noht soth,"*^ ich singe efne ^ 

Mid fuUe dreme ^^ and lude stefne.*" 

Thu wenist ^^ that ech song beo grislich ^® 

That thine pipinge nis i-lich : ''^ 

Mi stefne ^ is bold and noht un-orne,** 

Heo ^^ is-i lich ^^ one grete home ; 

And thin is i-lich ^'^ one pipe 

Of one smale weode un-ripe.^^ 320 

Ich singe bet than thu dest ; ^^ 

Thu chaterest so ^ doth on Irish prest. 

Ich singe an eve, a rihte time, 

And seoththe,^^ won ^^ hit is bed-time, 

The thridde sithe ^^ at middelnihte. 

And so ich mine song adihte '^^ 

Wone 1^ ich i-seo arise veorre ^^ 

^ her ^ despised ^ very foully ^ for everyone 
holds her ^ hateful ® monster ^ I am the worse 
* truly ^ appearance ^° give up ^^ flies away ^^ fails 
^^ when ^■^ arrived ^^ I feel more like spitting 
^^ because of ^^ screeching ^^ waited till ^^ no 
longer wait ^° swollen ^^ nigh ^^ breath choked 
^^ threw ^^ how does it seem ^^ thinkest ^® cannot 



"And yet thou sayest another thing, 

And tellest me I cannot sing, 310 

That all my song is mourning drear, 

A fearsome sound for men to hear. 

That is not sooth ; my voice is true. 

And full and loud, sonorous too. 

Thou thinkest ugly every note 

Unlike the thin ones from thy throat. 

My voice is bold and not forlorn. 

It soundeth like a mighty horn ; 

And thine is like a little pipe 

Made of a slender reed unripe. 320 

Better I sing than thou at least ; 

Thou chatterest like an Irish priest. 

I sing at eve, a proper time, 

And after, when it is liedtime, 

And once again at middle-night, 

And so ordain my song aright 

When I see rising from afar 

^"^ though ^* know nothing -^ trilling ^° often 
^^ causest ^^ anger ^^ injury ^^ if ^^ foot ^^ so may 
it happen ^^ may ^^ bough ^^ but *^ voice ^^ lam- 
entation ^ terrible '^^ true "^ precisely ^^ sound 

46 ugly 47 (.]jg^^. jg jjQJ- JJJ.g ^^y piping 48 UHplCaS- 

ing ^^ it ^^ like ^^ green ^^ dost ^^ as ^^ after- 
wards ^^ third time ^^ ordain ^^ afar 



i6 



THE OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE 



Other ^ dai-rim ^ other ^ dai-sterre. 

Ich do god mid mine throte, 

And warni men to heore note ; * 330 

Ac ^ thu singest alle longe niht, 

From eve fort *^ hit is dai-Uht, 

And evre lesteth thin o '' song 

So ^ longe so ® the niht is longe, 

And evre croweth thi wrecche crei,^ 

That he ne swiketh ^° niht ne dai. 

Mid thine pipinge thu adunest ^'■ 

Thas monnes earen thar ^^ thu wunest/^ 

And makest thine song so un-wiht ^* 

That me ^^ ne telth ^^ of the nowiht." 340 

Evrich murhthe ^* mai so longe i-leste, 

That heo shal liki " wel un-wreste ; 2° 

Vor harpe and pipe and fugeles ^^ songe 

MisKketh, gif hit is to longe. 

Ne beo the song never so murie. 

That he ne shal thinche ^^ wel un-murie,^^ 

Gef he i-lesteth over un-wnie.'"* 

So thu miht -^ thine song aspille ; ^^ 

Vor hit is soth,^'' Alvred hit seide, 

And me ^^ hit mai in boke rede, 350 

' Evrich thing mai leosen ^* his godhede ^^ 

Mid unmethe ^° and mid over-dede.'" ^^ 



Either day-dawn or else day-star. 

I do men good thus with my throat, 

And help them with my warning note ; 330 

But thou art singing all the night, 

From eve until it is daylight. 

For ever lasts thy only song, 

As long as ever the night is long. 

And ever crows thy wretched lay. 

That ceaseth not, by night or day. 

Thy piping is ever in man's ears. 

Wherever thou dwellest, thy din he hears ; 

Thou makest thy song a thing of naught, 

No man accounteth thee as aught ; 340 

For any mirth may last so long 

That dislike of it waxeth strong ; 

For harp or pipe or song of bird 

Displeaseth if too long 'tis heard. 

Never so merry a song may be 

But to disgust shall turn its glee 

If it shall last till it annoy ; 

So mayst thou thy song destroy. 

For it is true, as Alfred said. 

And in his book it may be read, 350 

' Every good its grace may lose 

By lack of measure and by abuse.' " 



"Ule," heo seide, "wi dostu so? 411 

Thu singest a-winter ^^ ' wolawo ' ; ^^ 
Thu singest so ^ doth hen a ^* snowe : 
Al that heo singeth, hit is for wowe ;^^ 
A-wintere thu singest wrothe ^^ and gomere,^'' 
And evre thu art dumb a-sumere. 
Hit is for thine fule nithe,^* 
That thu ne miht ^^ mid us beo blithe, 
Vor thu forbernest '*" wel neh ^^ for onde,*^ 
Wane ''^ ure blisse cumeth to londe. 420 

Thu farest so ^ doth the ille ; *' 
Evrich blisse him is un-wille ; ^^ 
Grucching and luring *'' him beoth rade,^'' 
Gif he i-seoth that men beoth glade ; 
He wolde that he i-seye ^^ 
Teres in evrich monnes eye ; 
Ne rohte he ^^ theh ''" flockes were 
I-meind ^' bi toppes ''^ and bi here.^^ 
Al-so thu dost on thire ^ side ; 
Vor wanne ''^ snou lith thicke and wide, 430 
And alle wihtes ^^ habbeth sorhe,^" 

1 either ^ dawn ^ or ^ benefit ^ but ^ till ^ last- 
eth thy one * as ^ cry ^° it ceases not " dinnest 
^^ where '•''dwellest ^'* horrible ^''one ^"accounts 
^' naught ^^ every mirth " please ^ very badly 
^^ bird's ^^ seem ^^ vmpleasant ^''if it' Insic; unin 
displeasure ^^ mayst ^'' ruin ^^ 1 



please ^° very badly 
at ^'' if it lasts unto 
" true ^^ lose ^* good- 



"Owl," she said, "why dost thou so? 411 
Thou singest in winter a song of woe ; 
Thou singest as doth a hen in snow : 
AU that she sings it is for woe ; 
In winter thou singest in wrath and gloom, 
In summer thou art ever dumb. 
'Tis thy foul malice that hinders thee, 
That blithe with us thou may'st not be ; 
For envy 'tis that in thee burns. 
When in the spring our bliss returns. 420 

Thou farest as doth the wicked ever, 
Whom joy of others pleases never ; 
For grudging and louring is he mad 
Whene'er he sees that men are glad. 
Rather would such a one espy 
Tears in every person's eye ; 
Never a whit would that man care 
Though flocks were mixed, both head and hair. 
So dost thou fare, upon thy side ; 
For when the snow lies thick and wide, 430 
And every creature lives in sorrow, 

ness ^^ excess ^^ over-doing ^^ in winter ^^ wela- 
way ^'^ in ^^ woe "^ wrath ^"^ grief ^* hatred 
^^ mayst not ^^ burnest up "^ nigh '*^ envy ^' when 
'*'* wicked man '*'' unpleasing '*'' louring ^'' ready 
'*'* saw '^^ he would not care ^ though ^^ mixed 
up ^^ heads ^^ hair ^'^ thy ^* creatures ^'^ sorrow 



CURSOR MUNDI 



17 



Thu singest from eve fort amorhe.^ 
Ac ^ ich alle blisse mid me bringe ; 
Ech wiht ^ is glad for mine thinge/ 
And blisseth hit ^ wanne ^ ich cume, 
And hihteth agen ' mine kume.^ 
The blostme ginneth springe and sprede 
Bothe ine treo and ek. on mede ; 
The liUe mid hire faire wHte * 
Wolcumeth me, that thu hit wite/" 
Bit ^^ me mid hire faire bleo ^^ 
That ich schulle to hire fieo ; 
The rose also mide hire rude/* 
That cumeth ut of the thorne wude, 
Bit " me that ich shuUe singe 
Vor hire luve one skentinge." ^^ 



440 



Then singest thou from eve till morrow. 

But I all gladness with me bring, 

All men are happy when I sing ; 

They all rejoice, when I appear, 

And hope for me another year. 

Blossoms begin to spring and grow, 

On tree, in mead, and in hedge-row ; 

The lily with her fair white hue 

Doth welcome me, I would thou knew ; 440 

With her sweet face she biddeth me 

That I to her shall quickly flee ; 

Likewise the rose with ruddy hood, 

That cometh from the thorny wood, 

Biddeth me ever that I shall sing 

For her dear love in caroUing." 



From CURSOR MUNDI (c. 1300) 

{Unknown Author) 

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT 



An angel thus til ^^ him can ^^ sai : 210 

"Rise up, Joseph, and busk ^'^ and ga, ^^ 
Maria and thi child al-sua ; ^^ 
For yow be-hoves nu ^° al thre 
In land of Egypt for to fle ; 
Rise up ar ^^ it be dai, 
And folus 22 forth the wUdrin ^ wai. 
Herod, that es the child 2" fa,^^ 
Era nu ^^ wU sek him for to sla.^^ 
Thare sal ^^ yee bide stU wit ^^ the barn,^" 
TU that I eft ^^ cum yow to warn." 220 

Son *2 was Joseph redi bun ; ** 
Wit *^ naghtertale ^^ he went o *^ tun, 
Wit ^^ Maria mild and their meine : *^ 
A maiden and thair suanis ** thre, 
That servid tham in thair servis ; 
With thaim was nan bot war ^^ and wis. 

Forth SCO rad,*" that moder mild. 
And in hir barm ^^ sco ledd ^^ hir chUd, 
Til thai come at ^ a cove was ^'^ depe. 
Thar ^^ thai tham thoght to rest and slepe ; 
Thar did 4« thai Mari for to light,^^ 231 

Bot son thai sagh ^* an ugli sight. 
Als *^ thai loked tham biside, 

^ till morning ^ but * creature "* on my account 
^ rejoices ^ when ' hopeth for * coming ^ face 
^^ know ^^ bids ^^ visage ^* redness ^'' pastime ^^ to 
^^ did ^^ get ready ^* go ^' also ^^ now ^^ ere 
*^ follow ^ wilderness ^^ child's ^^ foe ^^ from now 



An angel thus to him did say : 210 

" Rise up, Joseph, and busk and go, 
Maria and thy chUd also ; 
For it behooves you now all three 
To the land of Egypt for to flee ; 
Rise up, then, ere it be day, 
And follow forth the desert way. 
Herod, that is the infant's foe, 
Henceforth wiU seek to lay him low. 
There with the bairn shall ye remain 
Till I come back to warn you plain." 220 

Now soon was Joseph ready dight ; 
He left the town at faU of night. 
With Mary mild and their company : 
A maiden and their servants three. 
That served them well in servants' guise ; 
With them was none but wary and wise. 

Forth she rode, that mother mild, 
And in her bosom bore her child, 
Till they came to a cave full deep ; 
There they had thought to rest and sleep ; 
There helped they Mary to alight, 231 

But soon they saw an ugly sight. 
As they were looking them beside, 



27 s] 



CURSOR MUNDI 



Ute o 1 this cove - than sagh ' thai glide 

]\lani dragons wel ■* sodanli ; 

The suanis '" than bi-gan to cri. 

Quen ^ Jesus sagh tham glopnid ^ be, 

He Hghted of ^ his moder kne 

And stod a-pon thaa ^ bestes grim,^" 

And thai tham luted ^^ under him. 240 

Than com ^^ the propheci al cler 

To dede ^^ that said es in Sauter : " 

"The dragons, wonand ^^ in thair cove. 

The Laverd ^^ agh " yee worthli to lofe." ^^ 

Jesus he went befor tham than, 

Forbed ^^ tham harm do ani man. 

Maria and Joseph ne-for-thi ^^ 

For the child war ful dreri ; ^^ 

Bot Jesus ansuard ^^ thaim onan : ^^ 

"For me drednes haf ^^ nu yee nan,^^ 250 

Ne haf yee for me na barn-site,^^ 

For I am self man al parfite,^^ 

And al the bestes that ar wild 

For me most ^^ be tame and mild." 

Leon yode tham als imid ; -^ 

And pardes,^" als ^^ the dragons did, 

Bifor Maria and Joseph yede,^^ 

In right wai tham for to lede. 

Quen Maria sagh thaa ^ bestes lute,^^ 

First SCO ^* was gretli in dute,^^ 260 

Til Jesus loked on hir blith 

And dridnes ^^ bad hir nan to kith.^'^ 

"Moder," he said, "haf thou na ward^* 

Nother o ^^ leon ne o lepard, 

For thai com noght us harm to do, 

Bot thair servis at *" serve us to." 

Bath *^ ass and ox that wit •*- tham war ^^ 

And bestes that thair harnais bar 

Ute o Jerusalem, thair kyth,^ 

The leons mekli yod ^^ tham wit,"*^ 270 

Wit-uten harm of ox or ass, 

Or ani best that wit tham was. 

Than was fulfild the propheci. 

That said was thorn Jeremi : 

"Wolf and wether, leon and ox, 

Sal •'^ comen samen,*^ and lamb and fox." 

^ out of ^ cave ^ saw ^ very ^ men ® when " terri- 
fied * off ^ those ^^ fierce ^^ bowed ^^ came ^^ to 
deed, to realization "the Psalter ^* dwelling 
^'' Lord ^'^ ought ^* praise ^^ forbade ^" neverthe- 
less ^^ sad ^^ answered ^ at once ^^ have ^^ none 



Out of this cave then saw they glide 

Many dragons full suddenly ; 

The servants then began to cry. « 

When Jesus saw them frightened be, 

He lighted from his mother's knee, 

And stood upon those beasts so grim. 

And low they bowed them under him.^ 240 

Then came the prophecy all clear 

As in the Psalter ye may hear : 

"Dragons that in their cavern dwell 

The praises of the Lord shall tell." 

Jesus, he went before them then. 
Forbade their harming any men. 
Maria and Joseph, none the less, 
For the child were in distress ; 
But Jesus answered them and said : 
"For me have ye no manner dread ; 250 

For me as child have ye no fright, 
A perfect man am I by right ; 
And all the beasts that are so wild. 
For me must be both tam.e and mild." 
A lion went them then amid ; 
And leopards, as the dragons did. 
Before Maria and Joseph lay, 
Ready to lead them on their way. 
When Mary saw the beasts all lout, 
Greatly, at first, she was in doubt, 260 

Till Jesus blithely drew anear, 
And bade her not at all to fear. 
"Mother," said he, "have no regard 
For lion or for fierce leopard ; 
For they come not us harm to do ; 
But us their service to give unto." 

Both ass and ox were with them there, 
And other beasts that baggage bare 
Out of their home, Jerusalem ; 
The lions meekly went with them, 270 

And did no harm to ox or ass, 
Or any beast that with them vras. 
Then was fulfilled the prophecy 
That spoken was by Jeremy : 
"Wolf and wether, lion and ox, 
Shall come together, and lamb and fox." 

^° child-sorrow *" perfect ^^ must "^ a lion went 
with them also ^° leopards ^^ as ^- went ^^ bow 
•'** she ^^ doubt, fear ^^ terror ^^ show, feel ^^ re- 
gard 35 of *° to ^1 both 42 with ^^ were *^ country 
■'^ shall ^^ together 



A LUVE RON 



19 



THOMAS DE HALES (bef. 1300) 
A LUVE RONi A LOVE LETTER 



A mayde Cristes ^ me bit yorne ^ 

Tha^ ■'"'"' hire ^ wurche ^ a luv roa;, 
For hwa?J ^leo ^ myhte best ileorne "^ 

To taken on * other soth ^ lefmon,^" 
That treowest were of alle berne," 

And best wyte cuthe ^^ a freo wymmon. 
Ich hire nule ^^ nowiht ^'^ werne/^ 

Ich hire wule ^^ teche as ic con. 8 

Mayde, her ^"^ thu myht ^^ biholde 

This worldes luve nys ^^ bute o res,^° 
And is by set so fele-volde,^^ 

Vikel,^ and frakel,^^ and wok,^'' and les.^^ 
Theos theines^^ that her weren bolde 

Beoth aglyden -"^ so ^^ wyndes bles ; ^^ 
Under molde ^" hi ligg^th ^^ colde 

And f aleweth ^^ so ^^ doth medewe gres. 1 6 



A maid of Christ doth plead with me 

To write her a letter of love to-day, 
From which she can learn most readily 

To take another true love, i'fay, 
Who faithfulest of all shall be, 

And best can guard a lady gay. 
No wise will I deny her plea, 

But I wiU teach her as I may. 8 

maiden, here thou mayst behold 

This earthly love is but a race. 
And is beset so many fold, 

Fickle and false and weak and base. 
Those knights that here were once so bold. 

Like wind have glided from their place ; 
Under mould they are lying cold, 

And wither as doth the meadow grass. 16. 



Nis non ^^ so riche, ne non so freo,^* 

That he ne schal heonne ^^ sone away. 
Ne may hit never his waraunt beo, — 

Gold ne seolver, vouh ^^ ne gray ; ^'' 
Ne beo he no the swift,^^ ne may he fleo, 

Ne weren ^^ his lif enne ''^ day. 
Thus is thes world, as thu mayht ^* seo, 

Al so ^^ the schadewe that gly t ^ away. 3 2 

This world fareth hwilynde.^^ 

Hwenne ^'' on cumeth, an other goth ; 
That ^^ wes bi-fore nu is bihynde, 

That ^= er ^« was leof ^^ nu hit is loth ; ^^ 
For-thi ^^ he doth as the blynde 

That in this world his luve doth. ^° 
Ye mowen iseo ^^ the world aswynde ; ^^ 39 

That wouh ^ goth forth, abak that soth.^'* 

Theo ^^ luve that ne may her abyde, 

Thu treowest ^^ hire ^'^ myd muchel wouh,^^ 

Al so ^^ hwenne hit schal to-glide,^° 
Hit is fals, arvi mereuh,°i and frouh,^^ 

And fromward ^^ in uychon tide." 

Hwile hit lesteth, is seorewe ^^ inouh ; ^^ 

^ a love rune (or letter) ^ of Christ's ' begs 
me eagerly ^ her ^ make ® whereby she ^ learn 
* an ^ true ^^ lover ^^ men ^^ could protect ^^ will 
not ^* not at all ^^ refuse ^^ will ^^ here ^® mayst 
^^ is not "^^ a race ^^ in so many ways ^^ iickle 
23 ugly 24 weak ^^ false ^^ these nobles ^^ are passed 
away -^ as ^* breath ^° the earth ^^ they lie 
^^ wither ^^ there is none ^* free, generous "^^ hence 



There's none so rich and none so free 

That hence he shall not soon away. 
Nothing may ever his warrant be, — 

Gold, nor silver, nor ermine gay ; 
Be he ever so swift, he may not flee, 

Nor guard his life a single day. 
Thus is this world, as thou mayst see. 

Like as the shadow that glides away. 



32 



This world fareth like the wind. 

One thing gone, another here ; 
What was before is now behind. 

What now is loath before was dear ; 
Therefore he doth as doth the blind, 

Who sets his love on this world's gear. 
Thenvorld is vanishing, ye shall find ; 39 

Evil goes forward, truth to the rear. 

The love that may not here abide, 

Thou art wrong to trust it now; 
Away from thee that love will glide. 

Capricious and frail and false of vow, 
And hasting away at every tide. 

The while it lasts, 'tis sorrow enow ; 

^® ermine ^^ vair ^* be he never so swift ^^ protect 
'*" a single ^^ just as ^ glides ^* swiftly ^^ when 
45 what 4S formerly ^7 dear ** hated ^Hherefore 
5** places 5^ may see ^^ vanish ^^ the wrong ^^ the 
fnie 55 the 56 frn«te=t '^^ it ^ verv wron^lv 59 even 



5** places "^ may see '•"■ vanisti "" the wrong "■* the 
true 55 the 56 trustest 5^ it 58 very wrongly 59 even 
" pass away ^^ delicate ^^ capricious ^^ hasting 
v 6* at everv time ®5 sorrow ^^ enoueh 



so ** pass away ^^., 
away ^* at every time 



20 



A LUVE RON 



An ende/ ne werie ^ mon [robe] so syde,^ 
He schal to-dreosen ■* so lef on bouh.^ 



In the end, none wears a robe so wide, 
But he shall fall as leaf from boi h 



48 



Hwer is Paris and Heleyne, 

That weren so bryht and f eyre on bleo ; ^ 
Amadas and Dideyne, '^ 

Tristram, Yseude and alle theo ; ® 
Ector, with his scharpe meyne,^ 

And Cesar, riche of worldes feo ? i" 
Heo beoth iglyden " ut of the reyne ^^ 

So 1^ the schef " is of the cleo.^^ 72 

Hit is of heom ^^ al so hit nere ; " 

Of heom ^^ me haveth ^* wunder itold, 
Nere hit reuthe ^^ for to here 

Hw hi ^° were with pyne aquold,^! 
And what hi tholeden ^^ alyve here. 

Al is heore ^ hot iturnd to cold. 
Thus is thes world of false fere ; ^* 

Fol ^^ he is the -^ on hire is bold. 80 

Theyh " he were so riche mon ^* 

As Henry ure ^^ kyng. 
And al so veyr ^° as Absalon 

That nevede ^^ on eorthe non evenyng,^^ 
Al were sone his prute ^^ agon. 

Hit nere ^* on ende ^ wurth on heryng.'^ 
Mayde, if thu wilnest ^^ after leofmon,^^ 

Ich teche the enne ^^ treowe king. 88 

A ! swete, if thu iknowe ^^ 

The gode thewes ^° of thisse childe ! 
He is feyr and bryht on heowe,^i 

Of glede chere,^^ of mode *^ mylde, 
Of lufsum lost,"*^ of truste treowe, 

Freo of heorte, of wisdom wilde ; ^^ 
Ne thurhte the never rewe,*^ 

Myhtestu do the ^^ in his hylde.'*^ 96 

He is ricchest mon of londe ; 

So " wide so ^^ mon speketh with muth, 
Alle heo ^^ beoth ^° to his honde 

Est and west, north and suth. 
Henri, king of Engelonde, 

Of hym he halt ^^ and to hym buhth.^- 
Mayde, to the he send ^^ his sonde, ^^ 

And wilneth ^^ for to beo the cuth.^^ 104 
****** 

' at last ^ wear ' wide ^ fall * bough ^ of face 
" Idoyne ' those * strength 1° wealth " they 
have slipped away. ^ land ^^ as " sheaf ^^ from 
the hillside ^^ them ^^ as if they had not existed 
^^ people have ^^ were it not pity "" how they 
*' killed with torture ^^ suffered ^ their ^'' validity 
•* foolish ^^ who ^^ though ^^ man "^^ our ^° beauti- 



Paris and Helen — ■ where are the 

That were so bright and fair of ''^ 
Amadas and Ydoine gay, 

Tristram, Yseult, and ail that 
Hector, strong in battle array. 

And Ccesar, great in worldly place : ' ,^ 
They all have glided from earth away "'^ 

As sheaf from the hill, that leaves no trace. 72 

They're now as though they never were here ; 

Of them are many wonders told, 
Were it not pity for one to hear 

How they were tortured and died of old, 
And what they suffered in life while ^r- 

AU their heat is turned t - 
Thus all this world doth ., 

Foolish is he who in it 

Although he were a m^/i ?« strone;. . 

As Henry is our gr-; 1;Q^ ^^^^ . ' _ 
And fair as Absalom gQ-^yincr • 

Whose match no :.^n3 his lot; 
His pride were soon ^.^^ , ^, 

In value less than^ bestowm.-:i-K- 
O Tiaid, if th^ X wilt oix nig, 

I wiU ^L thee a^^j, iL 88 

Ah, my sweet, if the' ^ ; ki 

The blessed virtut : this ' )xd I 
He is fair and bright / hue, ' - 

Both glad of cheer- aad mild of word, 
Of lovesome grace, of trust most true, / 

Free-hearted, rich in wisdom's hoard ; 
Never shouldst thou have need to rue. 

If thou but trust thee in his ward. 96 

He is the strongest man in land, 

As far as men can speak with mouth, 
And all are liegemen in his hand, 

East and west, north and south. 
Henry, King of English land. 

Doth hold of him and to him boweth. 
O maid, he sends thee his command, 

His win to be thy friend avoweth. 
* * 

ful, fair ^1 had ndi,,' '■. |u. ~ 

herring ^^ longest '''a'lovex 

^^ didst know '"' qualities ^ hue, appearance *^ couJ^ " 

tenance ''^ mood "''' of lovable desire " able ^^ thou 

wouldst never need to repent ■*' might'st thou 

put thyself *^ grace ''^ they ^° are ^^ holds ^^ bows 

" sends ^ messenger ^^ desires ^^ known to thee. 



MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS 



21 



MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS 

{Unknown Authors) 



A mayde C ~^ 

Tha^ -• 
For hwii.^ei'sh ^ and Averil, 

To taken ^Y biginneth to springe, 
That treo- 'ul ^ hath hire wyl 

Ar; ' ii/re lud ^ to synge. 
^ ich Ubbe "* in love longinge 
For semlokest ^ of alia thinge. 
He ^ may me blisse bringe ; 
Icham '^ in hire baundoun.^ 
An hendy hap ichabbe yhent,^ 
Ichot/" from hevene it is me sent, 
Ff'om, alle wymmen mi love is lent ^^ 
Theos theil^v^s ''x'soun. 

Beoth aglyden- -. 
Under molde ^o hi' ' ^ ayr ynoh, 

And faleweth ' -, hire eye blake, — 

^ .^11 ^iiere " he on me loh ! ^^ — • 

lU' " ^ '"' and wel ymake.^^ 



ALYSOUN (c. 1300) 



15 







to hire take, 
"I make,2i 
^2 forsake, 


/iijQ teye ^ 




20 


An hend_ .. 




!JOi. : i 


Nihtes-when :> 


■ve,; ■■' 


ind wakef '' 


Forthi 25 m 


■W' 


. '"^ waxeth won. 


Levedi,2^ al fv 


.hme 


^i 


Longinge is 


lent "' 


: on. 25 


In world nis 


non so 


\ termon,29 


That ai hire bounte 


'^« telle con .31 


Hire swyre ^^ 


is whittore then the swon, 


And feyrest may ^^ in 


toune. 


An hendi, etc. 


30 



35 



Icham for wowyng al forwake,^* 

Wery so water in wore,^^ 

Lest eny reve ^"^ me my make.^^ 

Ychabbe y-yir yore,^'' 

Betere is tholien whyle sore ^^ 

Then ^^ mournen evermore. 

Geynest under gore,"'' 

Herkne to my roun ! *i 

-^riHi. e*" " 

1 a love rune (or lette 

me eagerly * her ^ mat; , ^ 

*an 'true ^^ lover " , I am 

' .' iortuiit, , J. have got i" I 

12 alighted ^^ in color " with loving look ^^ laughed 

^« waist " made i» unless ^^ will 20 (for) to be 

21 mate 22 l will 23 ready to die 24 at night-time I 

turn 25 therefore 26 cheeks 27 i^dy 28 descended 

AE 



language 
power 



I live 
pleas- 
know 11 departed 



Betwixt old March and April gay, 

When sprays begin to spring. 
The little bird in her own way 

Follows her will to sing. 

But I must live in love longing 

For one who is the fairest thing. 

'Tis she who may to bliss me bring, 
For she my love hath won. 

A blessed fortune is my lot, 

'Tis sent to me from Heaven, I wot, 10 

To other women my love turns not 
But lights on Alison. 

Fair enough in hue her hair, 

Her brows are brown, and black her eyne. 
She smiled on me with iovesome air ; 15 

Trim is her waist and neat and fine. 

Unless thou'lt take me to be thine, 

Thy own dear love, O lady mine, 

Of longer living shall I pine, 
By death shall be undone. 20 

A blessed fortune is my lot, etc. 

Often at night I toss and wake ; 

For this my cheeks are pale and wan. 
Lady, 'tis all for thy dear sake 

Longing has fallen me upon. 25 

In world is none so wise a man 

That all her goodness tell he can. 

Her neck is whiter than the swan ; 
My heart she has undone. 

A blessed fortune is my lot, etc. 30 

Weary as water in weir I wake. 

And woo thee more and more. 
Lest some one rob me of my make.21 

For I have heard of yore, 

Better to suffer a while full sore, 35 

Than go a-mourning evermore. 

Gayest under gore. 
Hear my orison ! 

A blessed fortune is my lot, etc. 

2' there is no so wise man ^o goodness ^i can ^2 neck 
33 maid 3* I am for wooing all worn with watch- 
ing 35 weary as water in weir 36 take away from 
3'' I have heard long ago 38 it is better to endure 
hurt for a while 3^ than *" most gracious one alive 
(in clothing) '^^ secret 



aa 



MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS 



SPRINGTIME (c. 1300) 



Lenten ^ ys come with love to toune, i 

With biosmen and with briddes roune ; ^ 

That al this blisse bryngeth. 
Dayes-eyes in this ^ dales ; 
Notes suete •* of nyhtegales ; 5 

Uch foul song singeth.^ 
The threstercoc him threteth 00 ; ^ 
Away is huere ^ wynter woo 

When woderoue ^ springeth. 
This ^ foules ^ singeth feiiy fele/° 10 

And wlyteth " on huere wynter wele/^ 

That al the wode ryngeth. 

The rose rayleth ^^ hire rode/^ 
The leves on the' lyhte wode 

Waxen al with wille.^^ _ 15 

The mone mandeth ^^ hire bleo/^ 
The hlie is lossom ^* to seo, 

The fenyl and the fille ; ^^ 
Wowes this wilde drakes,^" 
Miles murgeth huere makes ; ^^ 20 

Ase strem that striketh ^^ stille, 
Mody meneth, so doht mo ; ^^ 
Ichot ycham on of tho,^* 

For love that likes ille.^^ 

The mone mandeth ^^ hire lyht, 25 

So doth the semly sonne brj^ht, 

When briddes singeth breme ; ^'^ 
Deawes donketh ^^ the dounes ; 2* 
Deores with huere derne rounes,^" 

Domes forte deme ; ^^ 30 

Wormes woweth under cloude ; ^^ 
Wymmen waxeth wounder proude, 

So wel hit wol hem seme. 
Yef ^^ me shal wonte ^* wille of on,^^ 
This wunne weole ^® y wole ^'^ forgon, 35 

Ant wyht in wode be fleme.^* 

^ spring ^ whisper ' these * sweet * each bird 
sings a song ^ the throstle cock threatens ever 
^ their * woodruff ^ birds ^^ wonderfully many 
" cry ^^ weal ^^ puts on " redness ^^ vigorously 
^^ mends " complexion ^^ beautiful ^® thyme 
^^ these wild drakes woo ^^ beasts gladden their 
mates ^^ runs "'' Uae moody man laments, — so do 



With love is come to town the spring, i 

With blossoms and birds' whispering; 

That all this bliss now bringeth. 
There are daisies in the dales, 
Pipings sweet of nightingales, 5 

His song each warbler singeth. 
The throstlecock doth strutting go ; 
Away is aU their winter woe 

When up the woodruff springeth. 
A thousand birds are singing gay 10 

Of winter's sadness passed away, 

Till all the woodland ringeth. 

The rose puts on her ruddy hood, 
The leaves within the greening wood 

With a wUl are growing. 15 

The moon is brightening her face; 
Here is the lily ua her grace. 

With thyme and fennel blowing ; 
A-wooing go the wilding drakes, 
Beasts are courting now their mates ; 20 

The stream is softly flowing ; 
Many a wretch bemcuns his lot ; 
I am one of them, I wot, 

My love for naught bestowing. 

The moon now mendeth fast her light, 25 
So doth the seemly sua shine bright. 

When birds are bravely chaunting ; 
The dews are falling on the hill ; 
For pleas of love in whispers still 

Sweethearts are not wanting ; 30 

The worm is wooing in the clod ; 
Women wax now wondrous proud, 

Their joy in life a- vaunting. 
If love of one I may not know, 
This blissful boon I will forego, 35 

" Lonely the wild wood haunting. 

others "'* I know I am one of those -^ pleases ill 
^^ mends, increases ^^ loud ^* dews . wet '^^ hills 
™ lovers with their secr'^t whispers [come] *^ cases 
[of love] to judge ^^ wovms woo under clod ^^ if 
'■*'' lack ^^ one ^^ boon of joy ^^ will ^® and be a 
banished wight in the forest 



MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS 



23 



UBI SUNT QUI ANTE NOS FUERUNT? (c. 1350) 



Were beth ^ they that biforen us weren, 
Houndes ladden ^ and havekes beren,^ 

And hadden f eld and wode ? 
The riche levedies * in here ^ hour, 
That wereden gold in here ^ tressour,'' 

With here ^ brighte rode ; "^ 

Eten and drounken, and maden hem glad ; 
Here lif was al with gamen ^ y-lad, 

Men kneleden hem ^ biforen ; 
They beren hem wel swithe heye ; '■" 
And in a twincling of an eye 

Here soules weren forloren,.^^ 

Were is that lawhing ^^ and that song, 
That trayling and that proude gong,^^ 

Tho havekes " and tho houndes ? 
Al that joye is went away, 
That wele ^^ is comen to weylaway ^^ 

To manye harde stoundes.^^ 

Here ^ paradis they nomen ^^ here,^^ 
And nou they lyen in helle y-fere ; ^^ 

The fyr hit brennes ^^ evere : 
Long is ay, and long is o. 
Long is wy, and long is wo ; 

Thennes ne cometh they nevere. 



Where are they that lived of yore? 
Hounds they led and hawks they bore, 

And held both park and chase. 
The ladies in their bowers fair, 
Who bound with gold their lovely hair, 

And winsome were of face ; 6 

They ate and drank and made them glad ; 
Their life was all with pleasure led. 

Men knelt unto their sway ; 
They bore themselves fuU haughty and high ; 
And in the twinkling of an eye 
12 Their souls were lost for aye. 12 

Where is that laughing and that song, 
That swaggering step that strode along, 

The hawks and all the hounds ? 
All that joy is passed away. 
That weal is turned to woe for aye, 
18 To woe that hath no bounds. 18 



Their heaven they had ere they did die, 
And now together in hell they lie ; 

The fire it burneth ever. 
Long is ay ! and long is oh ! 
Long is wy ! and long is wo ! 

Thence escape they never. 24 



24 



^ where are ^ led ^ hawks bore * ladies 
^ their ^ head-dress ^ complexion * pleasure 
^ them ^'^ bore themselves very high ^^ lost 



^^ laughing ^^ gait ^^ those hawks ^^ weal ^® alas 
^^ hours ^^ took ^^ here ^° together ^^ burns 



THE AGE OF CHAUCER 



WILLIAM LANGLAND? (i332?-i4oo?) 
PIERS THE PLOWMAN 

From THE PROLOGUE (A — TEXT) 



In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonne, 
I schop ^ me into a shroud,^ as ^ I a scheep ^ 

were; 
In habite as an hermite unholy of werkes, 
Wente I wyde in this world wondres to here f 
Bote ^ in a Mayes morwnynge, on Malverne 

hulles, ^ 5 

Me bifel a ferly/ of fairie,^ me-thoughte. 
I was wery, forwandred/" and wente me 

to reste 
Undur a brod banke bi a bourne " side ; 
And as I lay and leonede and lokede on the 

watres, 
I slumbrede in a slepynge, hit ^^ swyed ^^ so 

murie.^^ lo 

Thenne gon I meeten^^ a mervelous 

sweven,^® 
That I was in a wUdernesse, wuste " I never 

where ; 
And as I beheold into the est an heigh ^^ to 

the Sonne, 
I sauh ^^ a tour on a toft ,2° tryelyche ^^ 

i-maket ; 
A deop dale bineothe, a dungun ther-inne, 15 
With deop dich and derk and dredful of 

sighte. 
A feir feld full of folk fond ^^ I ther bitwene, 
Of alle maner of men, the mene and the 

riche, 
Worchinge ^^ and wandringe as the world 

asketh. 
Summe putten hem ^^ to the plough, plei- 

den ^^ ful seldene,-'' 20 

In scttynge and in sowynge swonken^^. ful 

harde. 
And wonnen that ^* theos wasturs '^ with 

glotonye distruen.^^ 

* shaped, arrayed ^ garment ' as if ■* sheep 
^ hear ® but ^ hills * strange thing ^ enchant- 
ment ^^ worn out with wandering "burn, brook 
^^ it '^ whispered, made a low sound ^'' merry 



In a summer season when soft was the sun- 
shine, 
I got me into a garment that grew on a 

sheep's back ; 
In habit like a hermit unholy in living, 
I went wide in this world wonders to seek 

out. 
But on a May morning, on Malvern hill- 
side, 5 
I met with a marvel, of magic I thought ii. 
I was weary, forwandered, and went to 

refresh me 
Under a broad bank by the side of a brooklet . 
And as I lay and leaned there and looked on 

the waters, 
I slumbered in a sleeping, the sound was so 

soothing. 10 

Then came to my mind's eye a marvellous 

vision, 
That I was in a .wilderness, where wist I 

never ; 
And as I looked into the east and up where 

the sun was, 
I saw a tower on a toft trinily constructed ; 
A deep dale beneath a dungeon within it. 15 
With deep ditch and dark and dreadful to 

look on. 
A fair field full of folk found I between them. 
Of all manner of men, the mean and the 

mighty, 
Working and wandering as the world 

asketh. 
Some put hand to the plow, played very 

seldom, 20 

In setting and sowing sweated they hardly, 
And won what these wasters with gluttony 

devour. 

^^did I dream ^® dream ^^ knew ^^ on high ^^ saw 
-° field, building-site ^^ choicely, skilfullj' ^ found 
2^ working -'' them "^^ played ^^ seldom ^' laboured 
^ what ^^ these wasters •'" destroy 



24 



PIERS THE PLOWMAN 



25 



And summe putten hem to pruide/ ap- 

paraylden hem ther-after,^ 
In cuntenaunce ^ of clothinge comen dis- 

gisid.* 
To preyeres and to penaunce putten hem 

monye,^ 25 

For love of ur ® Lord liveden ful streite, 
In hope for to have hevene-riche blisse ; ^ 
As ancres ^ and hermytes that holdeth hem 

in heore ^ celles, 
Coveyte ^^ not in cuntre to cairen " aboute, 
For non Hkerous l3^flode ^^ heore hcam ^^ to 

plese. 
And summe chosen chaffare, " to cheeven ^^ 

the bettre, 31 

As hit semeth to ure sighte that suche men 

thryveth. 
And summe, murthhes ^^ to maken, as mun- 

strals cunne " 
And gete gold with here ^ gle, gilties, I 

trowe; 
Bote japers ^^ and jangelers/^ Judas chil- 
dren, 
Founden hem fantasyes and fooles hem 

maaden, 
And habbeth wit at heore ^ wille to worchen 

yif hem luste.^" 37 

That 21 Poul precheth of hem, • I dar not 

preoven ^^ heere : 
Qui loquitur turpiloquium he is Luciferes 

hyne. ^^ 
Bidders '^ and beggers faste aboute 

eoden,^^ 
Til heor bagges and heore balies ^^ weren 

bretful i-crommet ; ^^ 41 

Feyneden hem ^^ for heore foode, foughten 

atte 2^ ale ; 
In glotonye, God wot, gon heo ^° to bedde 
And ryseth up with ribaudye ^^ this roberdes 

knaves ; '^ 
Sleep and sleughthe ^^ suweth ^* hem evere. 
PUgrimes and palmers plihten ^^ hem 

togederes 46 

For to seche ^^ Seint Jame and seintes at 

Roome ; 
Wenten forth in heore wey with mony wyse 

tales. 
And hedden ^"^ leve to lyen al heore lyf aftir. 



^ pride ^ accordingly ' fashion ^ came disguised 

" our ^ the joy of the kingdom of heaven 

nuns '•' their ^'^ desire ^^ roam ^ luxurious food 



^ many ®, our ^ the joy of the k 

^ nuns " their ^'^ desire ^^ roam 

^^ body ^'* trade ^^ thrive ^^ amusements 

how ^^ jesters ^^ buffoons ^° to work if they 



desire ^^ roam ^ luxurious food ^^ at the g,v. 
^^ thrive ^^ amusements ^^ know rascals ^^ sloth 
)uffoons ^° to work if they pleased 



And some pranked them in pride, ap- 
pareled them accordingly. 

In quaint guise of clothing came they dis- 
figured. 
To prayers and to penance put themselves 
many, 25 

All for love of our Lord lived they most 
strictly, 

In hope of having heaven's bliss after ; 

As nuns and as hermits that in their cells 
hold them, 

Covet not careering about through the coun- 
try. 

With no lustful luxuries their living to pam- 
per. 30 
And some took to trade, to thrive by the 
better, 

As to our sight it seemeth that such men 
prosper. 
And some, merriments to make, with min- 
strels' cunning, 

And get gold with their glee, guiltless, me- 
thinketh ; 

But jesters and jugglers, Judas' children, 

Forged them wild fantasies as fools pre- 
tended, 36 

Yet have wit at their will to work, were they 
willing. 

What Paul preacheth of them prove here 
I dare not : 

Qui loquitur turpiloquium he is Lucifer's 
henchman. 
Bidders and beggars fast about bustled. 

Till their bags and their bellies were brimful 
and bulging ; 41 

Faking for their food, and fighting at the 
alehouse, 

In gluttony, God wot, go they to slumber, 

And rise up with ribaldry, these robber 
rascals ; 

Sleep and sloth too pursue them forever. 45 
Pilgrims and palmers pledged them to- 
gether 

To seek St. James's and saints' shruies at 
Rome too ; 

Went they forth on their way with many 
Vise stories. 

And had leave to be liars all their lives after. 

2^ what ^ prove, declare ^^ servant ^ beggars 
2^ went ^® bellies ^'^ brimful crammed ^^ shammed 
29 at the 30 oro thev ^^ ribaldry ^^ these robber 



nful crammed ^^ shammed 

3° go they 3^ ribaldry ^^ these robber 

" 3* follow 3^ plighted ^^ seek ^~ had 



26 



WILLL\M LANGLAND 



1 Grete lobres - and longe, that loth weore to 

swynke,^ 5° 

Clotheden hem in copes, to beo knowen for 

bretheren ; 
And summe schopen hem to * hermytes 

heore ese to have. 
I fond there freres," all the foure ordres, 55 
Prechinge the peple for profyt of heore 

wombes,^ 
Glos}-nge ' the Gospel as hem good hketh,^ 
For covetj-se of copes construeth hit ille ; 
For monye ^ of this maistres mowen ^^ 

clothen hem at lykmg, 
For moneye ^^ and heore marchaundie 

meeten togedere ; 60 

Seththe ^^ Charite hath be ^^ chapmon," and 

cheef to schriven ^^ lordes, 
Mony ferlyes han ^^ bifalle, in a fewe yeres. 
But ^" HoVchirche and heo ^* holde bet ^^ 

togedere, 
The moste mischeef on molde "° is moimtjTig 

up faste. 
Ther prechede a pardoner, as -^ he a prest 

were, 65 

And brought forth a bulle with bisschopes 

seles, 
And seide that himself mighte asoylen ^ 

hem alle 
Of falsnesse and fastinge and of vouwes 

i-broken.^^ 
The lewede^-i m.en levide ^5 him wel and 

likede his speche, 
And comen up knehmge to kissen his buUe ; 
He bonchede ^^ hem with his brevet and 

blered -' heore eiyen,-^ 71 

And raughte ^^ with his ragemon ^^ ringes 

and broches. 
Thus ye giveth oure ^^ gold glotonis ^ to 

helpen ; 
.And leveth hit to losels ^^ that lecherie 

haxmten.^ 
Weore the bisschop i-blesset and worth 

bothe his eres,^-^ 75 

His sel shulde not be sent to deceyve the 

peple. 
Hit is not al bi '^ the bisschop that the boye 

precheth, * 

Bote the parisch prest and the pardoner 
parte the selver 

^ I have omitted two lines, which probably were not 
in the earliest versioti. ^ lubbers ' labour * shaped 
them to, became ^ friars ® bellies ^ interpreting 
^ according to their own desire ^ many ^'^ may 
" money ^^ since ^' been ^'' trader ^^ shrive, confess 



Great lubbers and long, that loth were to 

labour, 50 

Clothed themselves in copes, to be counted 

for "brethren" ; 
And some entered as anchorites their ease 

for to purchase. 
I found there the friars, all the four orders, 
Preaching to the people for profit of their 

belhes, 56 

Glossing the gospel as good to them seemed. 
For coveting of copes construe it wrongly ; 
For many of these masters may dress at 

their fancy, 
For money and their merchandise meet oft 

together ; 60 

Since Charity hath been a chapman, and 

chiefly to shrive nobles, 
]\Iany freaks have befallen in a few seasons. 
Save Holy-Chujch and they hold better to- 
gether, 
The worst mischief in the world is mounting 

up swiftly. 
There too preached a pardoner, as if he a 

priest were, 65 

And brought forth a bull — a bishop had 

signed it — 
And said that himself could absolve them 

all fully 
Of falseness in fasting and of vows they had 

broken. 
The unlettered believed him well and liked 

what he told them, 
And came up kneeling to kiss his sealed 

paper ; 
He banged them with his brevet and 

bUnded their vision. 
And raked ua with his rigmarole rings and 

brooches. 
Thus ye give up your gold gluttons to 

pamper ; 
And rain it on rascals that revel in lewdness. 
Were the bishop blessed and worth both 

his ears, 75 

His seal should not be sent to deceive thus 

the people. 
But the blame is not all on the bishop that 

the boy preaches. 
But the parish priest and the pardoner part 

the sUver 

^^ many wonders have ^^ unless ^^ they = the friars 
1^ better ^o earth ^i as if ^ absolve ^^ broken^ows 
-■' ignorant ^^ believed ^^ banged *' blinded -* eyes 
-* reached, got ^° license ^^ your ^ gluttons ^^ ras- 
cals ^* practice ^^ ears '® it is not all the fault of 



PIERS THE PLOWMAN 



27 



That the pore peple of the parisch schulde 

have yif that heo ne weore.^ 
Persones and parisch prestes playneth ^ to 

heore bisschops 80 

That heore parisch hath ben pore seththe ^ 

the pestilence tyme, 
To have a lycence and leve at Londun to 

dwelle, 
To singe ther for simonye, for selver is 

swete. 
Ther hovide ^ an hundret in houves ^ of 

selke, 
Serjauns lait semide to serven atte barre; 85 
Pleden for pens ^ and poundes the lawe, 
Not for love of ur Lord unloseth heore lippes 

ones.''' 
Thou mightest beter meten ^ the myst on 

Malverne hulles 
Then geten a mom ^ of heore mouth til 

moneye ^yeore schewed ! 
I saugh ther bisschops bolde and bachilers 

of divyne ^^ 90 

Bicoome clerkes of acounte the king for to 

serven. 
Erchedekenes and denis," that dignite 

haven 
To preche the peple and pore men to 

feede, 
Beon lopen ^^ to Londun, bi leve of heore 

bisschopes, 
To ben clerkes of the Kynges Benche, the 

cuntre to schende.^^ 
Barouns and burgeis ^^ and bondages ^^ 

alse ^^ 96 

I saugh in that semble/'^ as ye schul heren 

af tur ; 
Bakers, bochers, and breusters ^^ monye ; 
Wollene-websteris ^^ and weveris of lynen ; 99 
TaUlours, tanneris, and toklceris ^^ bothe; 
Masons, minours, and mony other craftes ; 
Dykers, and del vers, that don heore dedes 

iUe,2i 
And driveth forth the longe day with "Deti 

save Dam Emmer' ^ 
Cookes and heore knaves ^^ cryen "Hote 

pies, hote ! 
"Goode gees and grys ! ^* Go we dyne, go 

we!" 
Taverners to hem tolde the same tale, 106 



That the poor people of the parish should 

have but for these two. 
Parsons and parish priests complain to their 

bishops 80 

That their parish hath been poor since the 

pestilence season. 
To have a license and leave in London to 

linger. 
To sing there for simony, for sweet is silver. 
There hovered a hundred in hoods of silk 

stuff; 
It seemed they were sergeants to serve in 

the law courts, 85 

To plead for pennies and pounds for ver- 
dicts, 
Not for love of our Lord unloose their lips 

ever. 
Thou couldst better measure the mist on 

Malvern hill sides 
Than get a mum of their mouths tUl money 

were showed them. 
I saw there bishops bold and bachelors 

of divinity 90 

Become clerks of account and king's own 

servants. 
Archdeacons and deans, whose duty binds 

them 
To preach to the people and poor men to 

care for, 
Have lighted out to London, by leave of their 

bishops. 
To be clerks of the King's Bench, the country 

to injure. 
Barons and burgesses and bondmen also 
I saw in that assembly, as I shall show 

later ; 97 

Bakers, butchers, and brewers many ; 
Woolen-weavers and weavers of linen ; 
Tailors, tanners, and tuckers likewise ; 100 
Masons, miners, and many other craftsmen ; 
Dikers and diggers that do their deeds 

badly. 
And drive forth the long day with " Dieu 

save Dame Em-me!" 
Cooks and their cookboys crying, "Hot 

pies ! hot ! 
Good geese and piglets! Go we dine, go 

we!" 105 

Tavern-keepers told them a tale of traffic. 



^ if it were not for them ^ complain ^ since ^ lin- 
gered ^ hoods ® pence, money ^ once ^ thou 
mightst more easily measure ^ syllable ^^ divinity 
^^ deans ^ have run ^^ injure ^^ burgesses ^^ bond- 



men '^ also ^'^ assembly ^^ brewers ^^ woolen- 
weavers ^° tuckers, finishers of cloth ^ that do 
their work badly ^^ A popular song of the time. 
^^ boys ^'* pigs 



28 



WILLIAM LANGLAND 



With wyn of Oseye ^ and win of Gaskoyne, 
Of the Ryn ^ and of the Rochel, the rost to 

defye,^ 
Al this I saugh slepynge, and seve sithes 

more. 



With wine of Alsace and wine of Gascon, 
Of the Rhine and the Rochelle, the roast to 

digest well. 
All this saw I sleeping, and seven times 

more. 



THE FABLE OF BELLING THE CAT 
From THE PROLOGUE (B— TEXT) 



With that ran there a route ^ of ratones ^ 

at ones,^ 
And smale mys ^ with hem,* mo then a 

thousande, 
And comen ^° to a conseille for here " com- 

• une profit ; 
For a cat of a coul^te cam whan hym lyked, 
And overlepe hem lyghtlich and laughte ^^ 

hem at his wille, 150 

And pleyde with hem perilouslych and 

possed ^^ hem aboute. 
"For doute" of dyverse dredes^^ we dar 

noughte wel loke ; 
And yif ^® we grucche ^" of his gamen,^^ he wil 

greve us alle, 
Cracche ^^ us, or clawe us and in his cloches ^^ 

holde, 
That us lotheth the lyf or ^^ he lete us passe. 
Myghte we with any witte his wiUe with- 

stonde, 156 

We myghte be lordes aloft and lyven at 

owre ese." 
A raton ^ of renon,^^ most renable ^'^ of 

tonge, 
Seide for a sovereygne help to hymselve : ^^ — 
"I have y-sein ^^ segges," ^^ quod he, "in the 

cite of London 



With that ran there a rabble of rats all 

together. 
And small mice with them, more than a 

thousand. 
And came to a coimsel for their common 

profit ; 
For a cat of a court came when it pleased him. 
And overleaped them lightly and levied on 

them freely, 150 

And played with them perilously and pushed 

them about there. 
"For drede of divers deeds we dare not once 

look up ; 
And if his game we grudge him, he wiU grieve 

us also, 
Claw us or clinch us and in his clutches 

hold us, 
Making life to us loathsome ere he let us 

scamper. 
Might we with any wisdom his wilfulness 

hinder, 1 56 

We might be lords aloft and live at our liking." 
A rat of high renown, most reasonable of 

discourse. 
Said for a sovereign help for their sorrow : — 
"I have seen swains," said he, "in the city 

of London 



Beren beighes -^ ful brighte abouten here Wear circlets most splendid about their 



nekkes. 
And some colers of crafty werk ; uncoupled 

thei wenden ^* 162 

Both in wareine ^^ and in waste, where hem 

leve lyketh ; ^^ 
And otherwhile thei aren elleswhere, as I 

here telle. 
Were there a belle on here beighe,^^ bi Jesu, 

as me thynketh, 



necks swinging. 
And some collars of crafty work ; imcoupled 

they ramble 162 

Both in warren and in waste land, e'en 

where'er it pleases ; 
And other times are they elsewhere, as I am 

advised. 
Were a bell borne on the collar, by Jesu, as 

me thinketh, 



Men myghte wite ^^ where thei went, and One might Avit where they went, and away 
awei renne ! ^^ 166 scamper! 166 

^ Alsatia ^ Rhine ^ digest ^ seven times ^ crowd ^'eloquent '^^ themselves ^^ seen -^people (here 



® rats ^ once * mice * them ^° came ^^ their '- seized 
^^ pushed ^^ fear ^^ dreads ^'^ if ^^ grudge '^ sport 
*' scratch ^^ clutches ^^ before ^^ rat -^ renown 



dogs are meant) ^ rings ^^ go ^° warren '^ wher- 
ever they please ^^ collar ^^ know ^^ run 



PIERS THE PLOWMAN 



29 



And right so," quod this raton, "reson me 

sheweth 
To bugge ^ a belle of brasse or of brighte 

sylver 
And knitten on a colere for owre comune 

profit, 
And hangen it upon the cattes hals ; ^ than 

here ^ we mowen * 
Where ^ he ritt ^ or rest or renneth ^ to 

playe. 
And yif him list for to laike,* thenne loke 
we mowen, 172 

And peren ^ in his presence ther-while hym 

plaie liketh ; i" 
And yif hini Avrattheth,^^ be y-war and his 
weye shonye." ^^ 
AUe this route of ratones to this reson thei 

assented. 175 

Ac tho ^^ the belle was y-bought and on the 

beighe hanged, 
Ther ne was ratoun in alle the route, for alle 

the rewme ^^ of Fraunce, 
That dorst have y-bounden the belle aboute 

the cattis nekke, 
Ne hangen it aboute the cattes hals, al Enge- 

lond to wjmne ; 
And helden hem unhardy ^^ and here conseille 

feble, 180 

And leten ^^ here laboure lost and alle here 

longe studye. 
A mous that moche good couthe," as me 

thoughte. 
Stroke forth sternly and stode biforn hem 

alle. 
And to the route of ratones reherced these. 

wordes : 
"Though we culled ^^ the catte yut ^^ sholde 

ther come another 185 

To cracchy us and al owre kynde, though we 

croupe ^° under benches. 
For-thi 21 I conseille alle the comune to lat 

the catte worthe,^^ 
And be we never so bolde the belle hym to 

shewe ; 
For I herde my sire seyn,^ is sevene yere 

y-passed, 
' There ^^ the catte is a kitoun the courte is 

ful elyng' ; ^^ 190 

That witnisseth Holi-write, who-so wil it 

rede : Ve terre ubi puer rex est, ^^ &c. 



And right so," said this rat then, "reason 

doth counsel 
To buy a bell of brass or of bright silver 
And clasp on a collar for our common 

profit, 
And knit it round the cat's neck ; then may 

we know clearly 
Whether he rides or rests or runs to disport 

him. 
And if he pleases to play then may we press 

forward, 172 

And appear in his presence while playing 

him pleases ; 
And if wrathful he be, then beware and his 

way shun well." 
All this rabble of rats to this reasoning 

assented. 175 

But when the bell had been bought and 

bound on the collar, 
There was no rat in all the rout that, for all 

the realm of France, 
Durst have bound that same bell about the 

cat's neck there, 
Nor have hung it about his head, to have 

all England ; 
And found themselves fearful, and of feeble 

counsel, 180 

And allowed their labour lost and their long 

study. 
A mouse that much good marked, as me- 

thinketh. 
Strode forth sternly and stood out before 

them. 
And to that rabble of rats rehearsed tlris 

wisdom : 
"Though we killed the cat, yet would there 

come another 185 

To catch us and our kin, though we crept 

under benches. 
Therefore I counsel all the commons to let 

the cat flourish. 
And be we never so bold the bell for to show 

him; 
For I heard my sire say — 'tis seven j^ears 

since then — 
' Where the cat is a kitten the court will be 

ailing'; 19° 

That witnesseth Holy-writ, whoso will read 

it : Vae terrae ubi ptier rex est, etc. 



^ buy 2 neck ^ hear * may ^ whether ^ rides " realm " timid ^^ counted ^^ knew ^^ killed " yet 
^ runs ® if he wishes to play ^ appear i'' when he ^^ should creep ^i therefore ^2 be ^^ say ^•i where 
pleases to play " he is angry ^^ shun ^^ but when ^^ ailing ^^ woe to the land where the king is a boy 



3^ 



SIR JOHN MANDEYILLE 



For may no renke ^ there rest have for 

ratones bi nyghte. 
The while he caccheth cohynges ^ he coveiteth 

nought owre caroyne,^ 
But f et * hym al with venesoun/ defame 

we hym nevere. 
For better is a litel losse than a longe sorwe, 



For rest there may no man reap for rats in: 

the night-time. 
While that he catcheth conies he coveteth 

not our carcases, 
But feeds him all with venison, defame we 

him never. 
For better is a little loss than a long sorrow, 



The mase ® amonge us alle though we The maze among us all though we miss one 

mysse '' a shrewe.^ 196 rascal. _ 196 

For many mannes malt we mys wolde For many a man's malt we mice would 

destruye, destroy. 

And also ye route ^ of ratones rende mennes And also ye rabble of rats would rend men's 

clothes, clothing 

Nere ^^ that cat of that courte that can yow But for that cat of that court that can over- 



overlepe ; 
For had ye rattes yowre wille, ye couthe " 

nought reule ^^ yowre-selve. 200 

I sey for me," quod the mous, "I se so 

mykel ^^ after, 
Shal never the cat ne the kitoun bi my 

conseille be greved. 



leap you ; 
For had ye rats your will, ye could not rule 

your own selves. 200 

I say for me," said that mouse, "I see so 

much after. 
Shall never the cat nor the kitten by my 

counsel be grieved, 



Ne carpyng ^* of this coler that costed ^^ me Nor chatter of this collar that cost me noth- 

nevre. ing- 

And though it had coste me cat el," biknowen^'' And though it had cost me cash, confess it 

it I nolde,!^ I would not. 

But suffre as hym-self wolde to do as hym But suffer him as himself would to do as 

liketh, 205 doth please him, 205 

Coupled and uncoupled to cacche what thei Coupled and uncoupled to catch all they are 

mowe.^9 able. 

For-thi uche ^o a wise wighte I warne wite 21 Therefore every wise wight I warn to watch 

wel his owne." — well his havings." — 

What this meteles ^^ bemeneth,^^ ye men What the m)''stery means now, ye men 

that be merye, that are merry, 

Devine ye, for I ne dar,^^ bi dere God in Divine ye, for I dare not, by dear God of 

hevene ! . heaven ! 



SIR JOHN MANDEYILLE? (d. 1371) 
THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILE, KT. 

From CHAP. IV 



And from Ephesim Men gon ^^ throghe many 
lies in the See, unto the Cytee of Paterane, 
where Seynt Nicholas was born, and so to 
Martha, where he was chosen to ben ^^ Bis- 
schoppe ; and there growethe right gode Wyn 
and strong; and that Men callen Wyn of 
Martha: And from thens -^ gon Men to the 
lie of Crete, that the Emperour yaf ^^ som- 

1 man, person ^ rabbits ^ flesh ■* feeds ^ game 
8 confusion ^ get rid of ^ tyrant ^ crowd ^^ were 
it not for " could ^'^ rule ^^ much ^^ talking ^^ cost 



And from Ephesus men go through many 
isles in the sea unto the city of Pateran, where 
St. Nicholas was born, and so to Martha, 
where he was chosen to be bishop ; and there 
groweth right good wine and strong; and 
men call it Wine of Martha. And from 
thence go men to the isle of Crete, which the 
Emperor gave formerly to the Genoese. And 

^*' property ^^ confess ^^ would not ^^ may '" each 
^^ keep '- dream ^^ means ^^ dare not ^^ go ^^ be 
-" thence ^* gave 



THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILE 31 



tyme^ to Janeweys.^ And thanne passen 
Men thorghe the Isles of Colos and of Lango ; 
of the whiche lies Ypocras was Lord offe. 
And some Men seyn,^ that in the He of Lango 
is yit ■* the Doughtre of Ypocras, in forme and 
lykeness of a gret Dragoun, that is a hundred 
Fadme ^ of lengthe, as Men seyn : For I have 
not seen hire. And thei of the Isles callen 
hire, Lady of the Lond.^ And sche lyethe 
in an olde castelle, in a Cave, and schewethe '' 
twyes or thryes in the Yeer. And sche dothe 
none harm to no Man, but-yif * Men don hire 
harm. And sche was thus chaunged and 
transformed, from a fair Damysele, in-to 
lyknesse of a Dragoun, be ^ a Goddesse, that 
was clept ^^ Deane.i^ And Men seyn, that 
sche schalle so endure in that forme of a 
Dragoun, unto the tyme that a Knyghte come, 
that is so hardy, that dar come to hire and kiss 
hire on the Mouthe : And then schalle sche 
turne ayen ^^ to hire owne Kynde,^^ and ben a 
Woman ayen : But aftre that sche schalle not 
liven longe. And it is not long siththen ,^'^ that 
a Knyghte of the Rodes, that was hardy and 
doughty in Armes, seyde that he wolde 
kyssen hire. And whan he was upon his 
Coursere, and wente to the Castelle, and 
entred into the Cave, the Dragoun lifte up 
hire Hed ayenst ^^ him. And whan the 
Knyghte saw hire in that Forme so hidous 
and so horrible, he fieyghe ^^ awey. And the 
Dragoun bare " the Knyghte upon a Roche,^® 
mawgre his Hede ; ^^ and from that Roche, 
sche caste him in-to the See : and so was lost 
bothe Hors and Man. And also a yonge ^^ 
Man, that wiste ^^ not of the Dragoun, wente 
out of a Schipp, and wente thorghe the He, 
til that he come to the Castelle, and cam in to 
the Cave ; and wente so longe, til that he 
fond a Chambre, and there he saughe -^ a 
Damysele, that kembed ^ hire Hede, and 
iokede in a Myrour ; and sche hadde meche ^^ 
Tresoure abouten hire : and he trowed,^^ that 
sche hadde ben a comoun Woman, that 
dwelled there to receyve Men to Folye. And 
he abode, tille the Damysele saughe the 
Schadewe of him in the Myrour. And sche 
turned hire toward him, and asked hym, 
what he wolde. And he seyde, he wolde ben 
hire Limman ^® or Paramour. And sche asked 
him, yif " that he were a Knyghte. And he 

^ formerly, once upon a time ^ the Genoese ^ say 
* yet ^ fathom ^ land ^ appears * unless ^ by 
^^ called " Diana ^^ again, back ^^ nature " since 



then men pass through the isles of Colos and 
Lango; of the which isles Hippocrates was 
lord. And some men say that in the isle of 
Lango is yet the daughter of Hippocrates, 
in form and likeness of a great dragon that is 
a hundred fathoms in length, as men say ; for 
I have not seen her. And they of the isles 
call her Lady of the Land. And she lieth in 
an old castle, in a cave, and appeareth twice 
or thrice in the year. And she doeth no 
harm to any man, unless men do harm to her. 
And she was thus changed and transformed 
from a fair damsel into likeness of a dragon by 
a goddess that was called Diana. And men 
say that she shall so continue in that form of a 
dragon until the time that a knight shall come 
who is so hardy that he dares come to her and 
kiss her on the mouth : and then shall she re- 
turn to her own nature and be a woman again : 
but after that she shall not live long. And it 
is not long since that a knight of the Rhodes 
that was hardy and doughty in arms said that 
he would kiss her. And when he was upon 
his courser, and went to the castle, and 
entered into the cave, the dragon lifted up her 
head against him. And when the knight 
saw her in that form, so hideous and so hor- 
rible, he fled away. And the dragon bore the 
knight upon a rock despite his efforts ; ^nd 
from the rock she cast him into the sea : and 
so was lost both horse and man. And also a 
young man, that did not know about the 
dragon, went out of a ship, and went through 
the isle tiU he came to the castle, and came 
into the cave ; and went on till he found a 
chamber, and there he saw a damsel that was 
combing her hair and looking in a mirror ; and 
she had much treasure about her : and he 
supposed that she was a common woman, who 
dwelt there to receive men to folly. And he 
waited till the damsel saw his shadow in the 
mirror. And she turned herself toward him, 
and asked him what he wished. And he said 
he would be her lover or paramour. And 
she asked him if he were a knight. And he 
said, "Nay." And then she said that he 
could not be her lover : but she bade him go 
back to his fellows and make himself a knight, 
and come again upon the morrow, and she 
would come out of the cave before him ; and 
then he should come and kiss her on the 

^^ against ^^ fled ^'^ bore ^^ rock ^^ despite his head 
( = despite all he could do) ^° young ^^ knew ^^ saw 
^^ combed ^^ much ^^ behaved, thought -^ lover ^^ if 



32 



SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE 



seyde, nay. And than sche seyde, that he 
myghte not ben hire Lemman : ^ But sche 
bad him gon ayen ^ unto his Felowes, and 
make him Knyghte, and come ayen upon the 
Morwe, and sche scholde come out of tlae Cave 
before him ; and thanne come and kysse hire 
on the mowthe, and have no Drede; "for I 
schalle do the no maner harm, alle be it that 
thou see me in Lyknesse of a Dragoun. For 
thoughe thou see me hidouse and horrible 
to loken onne, I do ^ the to wytene,* that it is 
made be Enchauntement. For withouten 
doute, I am non other than thou seest now, 
a Woman ; and therfore drede the noughte. 
And yif thou kysse me, thou schalt have alle 
this Tresoure, and be my Lord, and Lord also 
of alle that He." And he departed fro hire 
and wente to his Felowes to Schippe, and leet ^ 
make him Knyghte, and cam ayen upon the 
Morwe, for to kysse this Damysele. And 
whan he saughe hire comen ® out of the Cave, 
in forme of a Dragoun, so hidouse and so hor- 
rible, he hadde so grete drede, that he 
fleyghe ^ ayen to the Schippe ; and sche 
folewed him. And whan sche saughe, that 
he turned not ayen, sche began to crye, as a 
thing that hadde meche * Sorwe : and thanne 
sche turned ayen, in-to hire Cave ; and anon 
the Knighte dyede. And siththen ^ hidre- 
wards,!" myghte no Knighte se hire, but that 
he dyede anon. But whan a Knyghte com- 
ethe, that is so hardy to kisse hire, he schalle 
not dye ; but he schalle turne the Damysele 
in-to hire righte Forme and kyndely " Schapp, 
and he schal be Lord of alle the Contreyes 
and lies aboveseyd. 



mouth, and have no dread; "for I shall do 
thee no manner of harm, albeit that thou see 
me in likeness of a dragon. For though thou 
see me hideous and horrible to look upon, I 
give thee to know that it is caused by en- 
chantment. For without doubt I am none 
other than thou seest now, a woman ; and 
therefore dread thee naught. And if thou 
kiss me, thou shaft have all this treasure, and 
be my lord and lord also of all the isle." 
And he departed from her and went to his 
fellows on the ship, and had himself made a 
knight, and came back upon the morrow to 
kiss the damsel. And when he saw her com.e 
out of the cave, in the form of a dragon, so 
hideous and so horrible, he had so great dread 
that he fled back to the ship ; and she fol- 
lowed him. And when she saw that he turned 
not back, she began to cry, as a thing that had 
great sorrow : and then she turned back into 
her cave ; and at once thesknight died. And 
from then until now no knight has been able 
to see her but that he died veiy soon. But 
when a knight comes that is so bold as to kiss 
her, he shall not die ; but he shall turn the 
damsel into her right form and natural shape, 
and he shall be lord of all the countries and 
isles abovesaid. 



From CHAP. XXVII 



In the Lond of Prestre John ben many 
dyverse thinges and many precious Stones, so 
grete and so large that men maken of hem ^ 
Vesselle; ^^ as Plateres, Dissches, and Cuppes. 
And many other marveylles ben there ; that 
it were to " combrous and to ** long to putten 
it in scripture ^^ of Bokes. 

But of the princypalle Yles and of his 
Estate and of his Lawe I schalle telle you 
som partye.i'^ This Emperour Prestre John is 
Cristene ; and a gret partie of his Contree also : 
but yit thei have not alle the Articles of oure 
Feythe," as wee have. Thei beleven wel in 
the Fadre, in the Sone, and in the Holy Cost : 



In the land of Prester John are man)^ di- 
verse things, and many precious stones so 
great and so large that men make of them 
vessels ; as platters, dishes and cups. And 
many other marvels are there ; that it were 
too cumbrous and too long to put it in the 
writing of books. 

But of the principal isles and of his estate 
and of his law I shall tell you some part. 
This emperor Prester John is Christian ; and 
a great part of his country also : but yet they 
have not all the articles of our faith, as we 
have. They believe well in the Father, in the 
Son, and in the Holy Ghost : and they are very 



Mover ^ back ^ cause ''know ^ let ® come ^^ vessels "too ^^ writing ^®part ^''religion 
' fled ® much ^ since ^^ till now " natural ^- them 



THE VOIAGE AND TRAVAILE OF SIR JOHN MAUNDEVILE 33 



and thei ben fuUe devoute and righte trewe on^ 
to another. And thei sette not be ^ no 
Barettes,^ ne be Cawteles/ ne of no Disceytes.^ 
And he hathe undre him 72 Provynces ; and 
in every Provynce is a Kyng. And theise 
Kynges han ^ Kynges undre hem ; and alle 
ben tributaries to Prestre John. And he 
hathe in his Lordschipes many grete mar- 
veyles. For in his Contree is the See that 
men clepen ^ the Gravely ^ See, that is alle 
Gravelle and Sond ^ with-outen ony drope of 
Watre ; and it ebbethe and flowethe in grete 
Wawes/° as other Sees don ; and it is never 
stille ne in pes" in no manner ^^ cesoun.^^ 
And no man may passe that See be Navye ^^ 
ne be no maner of craft : ^^ and therfore may 
no man knowe what Lond is beyond that See. 
And alle-be-it that it have no Watre, yit men 
fynden ^® there-in and on the Bankes fuUe gode 
Fissche of other maner of kynde and schappe 
thanne men fynden in ony other See ; and thei 
ben of right goode tast and delycious to 
mannes mete. 

And a 3 journeys long fro that See, ben gret 
Mountaynes ; out of the whiche gothe ^^ out a 
gret Flood,!^ that comethe out of Paradys ; and 
it is fuUe of precious Stones, withouten ony 
drope of Water ; and it rennethe ^^ thorghe the 
Desert, on that ^^ o ^ syde, so that it makethe 
the See gravely; and it berethe " in-to that 
See, and there it endethe. And that Flome ^* 
rennethe also 3 dayes in the Woke,^^ and 
bryngethe with him grete Stones and the 
Roches 22 also therewith, and that gret plentee. 
And anon as thei ben entred in-to the gravely 
See, thei ben seyn ^^ no more, but lost fOr evere 
more. And in tho 3 dayes that that Ryvere 
rennethe no man dar ^'^ entren in-to it : but 
in the other dayes men dar entren wel ynow.^^ 
Also beyonde that Flome,^^ more upward to 
the Desertes, is a gret Pleyn alle gravelly 
betwene the Mountaynes ; and in that Playn 
every day at the Sonne risynge begynnen to 
growe smale Trees; and thei growen til 
mydday, berynge Frute; but no man dar 
taken of that Frute, for it is a thing of 
Fayrye.-^ And aftre mydday thei discrecen " 
and entren ayen ^^ in-to the Erthe ; so that at 
the goynge doun of the Sonne thei apperen no 
more ; and so thei don every day : and that 
is a gret marvaylle. 

^ one ^ set not by ( = do not practice) ^ frauds 
^ tricks ^ deceits ^ have '^ call * gravelly ^ sand 
^^ waves " peace ^ kind of ^^ season ^^ ship 



devout and very true one to another. And 
they do not practice any tricks, or frauds, or 
deceits. And he hath under him seventy- 
two provinces ; and in every province is a 
king. And these kings have kings under 
them; and all are tributaries to Prester 
John. And he hath in his lordships many 
great marvels. For in his country is the sea 
that men call the Gravelly Sea, that is all 
gravel and sand, without any drop of water ; 
and it ebbeth and iioweth in great waves, as 
other seas do ; and it is never still nor in 
peace in any season. And no man may pass 
that sea by ship or by any kind of craft : and 
therefore may no man know what land is 
beyond that sea. And albeit that it have no 
water, yet men find therein and on the banks 
very good fish of different kinds and shapes 
from those that men find in any other sea ; and 
they are all very good to eat and delicious for 
man's food. 



And three days' distance from that sea are 
great mountains ; out of which flows a great 
river, that comes from Paradise ; and it is full 
of precious stones, without any drop of water ; 
and it runs through the desert, on the one side, 
so that it makes the sea gravelly ; and it 
flows into the sea and ends there. And this 
river runs three days in the week, and brings 
with it great stones and rocks also, and that 
in great abundance. And as soon as they 
have entered into the Gravelly Sea, they are 
seen no more but are lost forever. And 
during the three days that the river runs, no 
man dares enter into it : but during the other 
days one may enter well enough. Also 
beyond that river, further upward towards the 
deserts, is a great plain of gravel between the 
mountains ; and in that plain, every day at 
the rising of the sun, there begin to grow small 
trees; and they grow till midday, bearing 
fruit ; but no man dares take any of that 
fruit, for it is a thing of faerie. And after 
midday they decrease and enter again into 
the earth; so that at the setting of the sun 
they appear no more ; and so they do every 
day : and that is a great marvel. 



^^ device ^^ find ^^ goes, flows 

^° the ^^ week ^^ rocks ^^ seen ^* dare 

^^ magic ^^ decrease ^^ again 



^^ river ^^ runs 
^^ enough 



34 



JOHN WICLIF 



JOHN WICLIF (d. 1384) 



THE GOSPEL OF MATHEW 

(first version) 

CHAP. V 

Jhesus forsothe/ seynge ^ cumpanyes, wente 
up in-to an hill ; and when he hadde sete,^ his 
disciplis camen nighe to hym". And he, 
openynge his mouthe, taughte to hem, say- 
inge, "Blessid be the pore in spirit, for the 
kingdam in hevenes is heren.^ Blessid be 
mylde men, for thei shuln ° welde ^ the eerthe. 
Blessid be thei that mournen, for thei shuln ^ 
be comfortid. Blessid be thei that hungren 
and thristen rightwisnesse," for thei shuln ben 
fulfiUid. Blessid be mercyful men, for thei 
shuln gete mercye. Blessid be thei that ben ^ 
of clene herte, for thei shuln see God. Blessid 
be pesible men, for thei shuln be clepid ^ the 
sonys of God. Blessid be thei that suflfren 
persecucioun for rightwisnesse,'' for the kyng- 
dam of hevenes is herun.^ Yee shulen ^ be 
blessid, when men shulen curse you, and 
shulen pursue you, and shulen say al yvel ^° 
ayeins ^^ you leezing,^- for me. Joye ^^ yee 
with-yn-forth," and glade yee with-out-forth, 
for yoiure meede ^^ is plentevouse ^^ in hevenes ; 
forsothe so thei han ^" pursued and ^^ prophetis 
that weren before you. Yee ben ^ salt of the 
erthe ; that yif ^^ the salt shal vanyshe awey, 
wherynne shal it be saltid ? To no thing it is 
worth over,2o no ^^ bot ^^ that it be sent out, 
and defoulid of men. Ye ben * light of the 
world ; a citee putt on an hill may nat be hid ; 
nether men tendyn -^ a lanterne, and putten 
it undir a busshel, but on a candilstike, that 
it yeve ^^ light to alle that ben in the hous. 
So shyyne 2= youre light before men, that thei 
see youre good werkis, and glorifie youre Fadir 
that is in hevens. Nyle ^'^ ye gesse, or deme,^^ 
that Y came to undo, or distruye, the lawe, 
or the prophetis ; I came not to undo the lawe, 
but to fulfiUe. Forsothe ^^ I say to you 
trewthe, til heven and erthe passe, oon ^^ 
i, that is leste •'^^ lettre, or titil, shal nat passe 
fro the lawe, til allc thingis be don. Therfore 
he that undoth, or breketh, oon of these leste ^^ 
maundementis,^^ and techith thus men, shal 
be clepid ^'^ the leste in the rewme ''^ of hevenes ; 



uc cicpiu - Luii itsLc 111 Liie lewiiit; - ui iieveiies ; 

^ indeed ^ seeing ^ sat ^ theirs ^ shall "^ rule 
^ righteousness ^ are ^ called ^" evil " against 
*^ lying ^^ rejoice " with-yn-forth = inwardly 
^^ reward ^^ rjlenleous '" have ^^ also ^^ if ^^ besides 



THE GOSPEL OF MATHEU 

(second version) 

CAP. V 

And Jhesus, seynge ^ the puple, wente up in- 
to an hil ; and whanne he was set, hise dis- 
ciplis camen to hym. And he openyde his 
mouth, and taughte hem, and seide, ''Blessed 
ben pore men in spirit, for the kyngdom of 
hevenes is heme.'' Blessid ben mylde men, 
for thei schulen ^ welde ^ the erthe. Blessid 
ben thei that mornen, for thei schulen be 
coumfortid. Blessid ben thei that hungren 
and thristen rightwisnesse, for thei schulen 
be fuliiUid. Blessid ben merciful men, for thei 
schulen gete merci. Blessid ben thei that 
ben of clene herte, for thei schulen se God. 
Blessid ben pesible men, for thei schulen be 
clepid ^ Goddis children. Blessid ben thei 
that suffren persecusioun for rightfulnesse, for 
the kingdam of hevenes is heme.'* Ye schulen 
be blessid, whanne men schulen curse you, 
and schulen pursue you, and shulen seie al 
yvel ^^ ayens ^^ j^ou liynge, for me. Joie ^^ 
ye, and be ye glad, for youre meede ^^ is plen- 
tevouse ^^ in hevenes ; for so thei han ^" pur- 
sued also profetis that weren bifor you. Ye 
ben salt of the erthe ; that if the salt vanysche 
awey, whereynne schal it be saltid? To no 
thing it is worth overe,-" no -^ but -- that it be 
cast out, and be defoulid of men. Ye ben 
light of the world ; a citee set on an hil may 
not be hid ; ne me teendith -^ not a lanterne, 
and puttith it undur a busschel, but on a 
candilstike, that it yyve light to aUe that ben 
in the hous. So schyne youre light befor 
men, that thei se youre goode werkis, and 
gloritie youre Fadir that is in hevenes. Nil -^ 
ye deme,-' that Y cam to undo the lawe, or 
the profetis ; Y cam not to undo the lawe, but 
to fuhille. Forsothe Y seie to you, tU hevene 
and erthe passe, o ^^ lettir or o ^'^ titel shal 
not passe fro the lawe, til alle thingis be doon. 
Thcrfor he that brekith oon of these leeste ^'^ 
maundementis,^^ and techith thus men, schal 
be clepid •^^ the leste in the rewme ^^ of hevenes ; 
but he that doith, and techith, schal be clepid 
greet in the kyngdom of hevenes. And Y seie 



^ sat ^ theirs ^ shall "^ rule -^ not -' but ^^ light "^^ give ^'^ ShI'J. of command 
il " against ^^ do not, literally, wish not (Lat. iiolite) •' think 
28 verily ^^ one ^^ least ^^ commandments ^- called 
•^^ kingdom 



THE GOSPEL OF AlATHEW 



35 



forsothe, this^ that doth, and techith, shal 
be clepid grete in the kyngdame of hevenes. 
Forsothe Y say to you, no-but-yif^ youre 
rightwisnesse shal be more plentevouse than 
of scribis and Pharisees, yee shulen not entre 
in-to kyngdam of hevenes. Yee han ^ herde 
that it is said to olde men. Thou shal nat 
slea; forsothe he that sleeth, shal be gylty 
of dome.^ But I say to you, that evereche ^ 
that is wrothe to his brother, shal be gylty of 
dome ; forsothe he that shal say to his brother, 
Racha, that is, a word of scorn, shal be gylty 
of counseile ; ^ sothly he that shal say. Fool, 
that is, a word of dispisynge, shal be gylti 
of the fijr ^ of helle. Therfore yif thou offrist 
thi yift * at the auter,^ and there shalt by- 
thenke,^° that thi brother hath sum-what 
ayeins thee, leeve there thi yift before the 
auter, and go first for to be recounseilid, or 
acordid, to thi brother, and thanne thou cum- 
mynge shalt offre thi yifte. Be thou consent- 
ynge to thin adversarie soon, the whijle thou 
art in the way with hym, lest pera venture thin 
adversarie take ^^ thee to the domesman,i^ and 
the domesman take thee to the mynystre,^^ 
and thou be sente in-to prisoun. Trewely I 
say to thee, Thou shalt not go thennes, til 
thou yelde ^* the last ferthing. Ye han herd, 
that it was said to olde men, Thou shalt nat 
do lechery e. Forsothe Y say to you, for- 
why ^^ every man that seeth a womman for to 
coveite hire, now he hath do lecherie by hire 
in his herte. That yif thi right eiye sclaundre^^ 
thee, puUe it out, and cast it fro thee ; for it 
speedith ^^ to thee, that oon ^^ of thi membris 
perishe, than al thi body go in-to helle. And 
yif thi right hond sclaundre thee, kitt " it 
awey, and cast it fro thee ; for it spedith to 
thee, that oon of thi membris perishe, than 
that al thi body go in-to helle. Forsothe it is 
said, Who-evere shal leeve his wyf, yeve ^'^ 
he to hir a libel, that is, a litil boke, of for- 
sakyng. Sothely Y say to you, that every 
man that shal leeve his wyf, outaken ^^ cause 
of fornicacioun, he makith hire do lecherie 
and he that weddith the forsaken wijf, doth 
avoutrie.^^ Efte-soonys ^^ yee han herd, that 
it was said to olde men. Thou shalt not for- 
swere, sothely ^^ to the Lord thou shalt yeeld ^* 
thin oethis.^^ Forsothe Y say to you, to nat 



to you, that but your rightfulnesse be more 
plentevouse than of scribis and of Farisees, ye 
schulen not entre into the kyngdom of hevenes. 
Ye han ^ herd that it was seid to elde men, 
Thou schalt not slee ; and he that sleeth, schal 
be gilti to doom.^ But Y seie to you, that ech 
man that is wrooth to his brothir, schal be 
gilti to doom ; and he that seith to his brother, 
Fy ! schal be gilti to the counseil ; ^ but he 
that seith. Fool, schal be gilti to the fier of 
helle. Therfor if thou offrist thi yifte ^ at the 
auter,^ and ther thou bithenkist, that thi 
brothir hath sum-what ayens thee, leeve 
there thi yifte bifor the auter, and go first to 
be recounselid to thi brothir, and thanne thou 
schalt come, and schalt offre thi yifte. Be 
thou consentynge to thin adversarie soone, 
while thou art in the weie with hjmi, lest 
pera venture thin adversarie take ^^ thee to the 
domesman,^^ and the domesman take thee to 
the mynystre,^^ and thou be sent in-to prisoun. 
Treuli Y seie to thee, thou shalt not go out fro 
thennus, til thou yelde ^'^ the last ferthing. 
Ye han herd that it was seid to elde men. 
Thou schalt do no letcherie. But Y seie to 
you, that every man that seeth a womman for 
to coveite hir, hath now do letcherie bi hir in 
his herte. That if thi right iye sclaundre ^^ 
thee, puUe hym out, and caste fro thee; for 
it spedith ^^ to thee, that oon ^^ of thi membris 
perische, than that al thi bodi go in-to helle. 
And if thi right hond sclaundre thee, kitte ^^ 
hym aweye, and caste fro thee ; for it spedith 
to thee that oon ^^ of thi membris perische, 
than that al thi bodi go in-to helle. And it 
hath be seyd, Who-evere leeveth his wiif , yyve 
he to hir a libel of forsakyng. But Y seie to 
you, that every man that leeveth his wiif, 
outtakun cause of fornycacioun, makith hir 
to do letcherie, and he that weddith the for- 
sakun wiif, doith avowtrye. Eftsoone ye han 
herd, that it was seid to elde men. Thou schalt 
not forswere, but thou schalt yelde thin othis 
to the Lord. But Y seie to you, that ye 
swere not for ony thing ; nethir bi hevene, for 
it is the trone of God ; nether bi the erthe, for 
it is the stole of his feet ; nether bi Jerusalem, 
for it is the citee of a greet kynge ; nether 
thou shalt not swere bi thin heed, for thou 
maist not make oon heere white ne blacke; 



^ he ^ unless ^ have ^ judgement ^ every one ^^ profiteth ^^ one ^^ cut ^^ give (subj. of com- 
^ the council ^ fire ^ gift ^ altar ^'^ remember mand) ^i except ^^ adultery ^^ again ^ truly 
" deUver ^" judge ^^ officer " pay ^^ that " slander ^5 oaths 



36 



JOHN WICLIF 



swere on al manere; neither by hevene, for 
it is the trone of God ; nether by the erthe, 
for it is the stole of his feet ; neither by Jeru- 
salem, for it is the citee of a greet kyng; 
neither thou shalt swere by thin heved/ for 
thou maist not make oon heer whyt or blak ; 
but be youre word yea, yea ; Nay, nay ; for- 
sothe that that is more than this, is of yvel. 
Yee han herde that it is said, Eiye ^ for eiye,^ 
toth for toth. But Y say to you, to nat ayein- 
stonde ^ yvel ; but yif any shal smyte thee 
in the right cheeke, yeve to hym and * the 
tother; and to hym that wole stryve with 
thee in dome,^ and take awey thi coote, leeve 
thou to hym and ^ thin over-clothe ; and who- 
evere constrayneth thee a thousand pads, go 
thou with hym other tweyne. Forsothe yif ^ 
to hym that axith of thee, and turne thou 
nat awey fro hym that wol borwe ^ of thee. 
Yee han herd that it is said, Thou shalt love 
thin neighbore, and hate thin enmy. But Y 
say to you, love yee youre enmyes, do yee wel 
to hem * that haten ^ you, and preye yee for 
men pursuynge, and falsly.chalengynge ^° you ; 
that yee be the sonys of youre Fadir that is in 
hevenes, that makith his sune to springe up 
upon good and yvel men, and rayneth upon 
juste men and un juste men. For yif ye loven 
hem that loven you, what meed " shul ^^ yee 
have ? whether and * puplicans don nat this 
thing ? And yif yee greten, or saluten, youre 
bretheren oonly, what more over ^^ shul yee 
don ? whether and ^ paynymmys ^* don nat 
this thing? Therfore be yee parfit,^^ as and'* 
youre hevenly Fadir is parfit. Take yee hede, 
lest ye don your rightwisnesse before men, 
that yee be seen of hem, ellis ^'^ ye shule nat han 
meed at youre Fadir that is in hevenes. Ther- 
fore when thou dost almesse," nyle ^^ thou 
synge by fore thee in a trumpe, as ypocritis 
don in synagogis and streetis, that thei ben 
maad worshipful of men ; forsothe Y saye to 
you, thei han resceyved her " meede. But 
thee doynge almesse,^'' knowe nat the left 
bond what thi right hond doth, that thi almes 
be in hidliSj^" and thi Fadir that seeth in hidlis, 
shal yelde ^^ to thee." 



but be youre word, yhe, yhe ; Nay, nay ; and 
that that is more than these, is of yvel. Ye 
han herd that it hath be seid, lye for iye, and 
tothe for tothe. But Y seie to you, that ye' 
ayenstonde ^ not an yvel man ; but if ony 
smyte thee in the right cheke, schewe to him 
also the tothir ; and to hym that wole stryve 
with thee in doom,^ and take awey thi coote, 
leeve thou to him also thi mantil ; and who- 
ever constreyneth thee a thousynde pacis, go 
thou with hym othir tweyne. Yyve ^ thou 
to hym that axith of thee, and turne not 
awey fro hym that wole borewe '' of thee. Ye 
han herd that it was seid. Thou shalt love thi 
neighbore, and hate thin enemye. But Y 
seie to you, love ye youre enemyes, do ye wel 
to hem that hatiden you, and preye ye for 
hem ^ that pursuen, and sclaundren you ; 
that ye be the sones of your Fadir that is in 
hevenes, that makith his sunne to rise upon 
goode and yvele men, and reyneth on just men 
and unjuste. For if ye loven hem * that loven 
you, what mede " schulen ye han ? whether 
pupplicans doon not this? And if ye greten 
youre britheren oonli, what schulen ye do 
more ? ne doon not hethene men this ? Ther- 
fore be ye parfit, as youre hevenli Fadir is 
parfit." 

[It will be observed that the Second Version agrees 
with the Authorized Version in the division 
into chapters, while the First Version con- 
tains a few verses usually assigned to Chapter 
VL] 



^ head ^ eye ^ resist ' aiso " a law 
' borrow ® them ^ hate ^° accusing 



* also ^ a lawsuit ^ give 
-"••'•• — ^^ reward 



^2 shall ^^ besides ^* heathen ^^ perfect ^'^ else 
^^ alms ^^ do not ^^ their ^^ secret ^^ pay 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



37 



SYR GAWAYN AND THE GRENE KNYGHT 

{Unknown Author) 
FYTTE THE FIRST 



XI 

Ther wacz ^ lokyng on lenthe,^ the lude ^ to 

beholde, 
For uch * mon had mervayle quat ^ hit mene 

myght, 
That a hathel ^ and a horse myght such a hwe 

lach.7 
As growe grene as the gres ^ and grener hit 

semed, 
Then ^ grene aumayl ^° on golde lowande " 

bryghter. 
Al studied that ther stod, and stalked hym 

nerre/^ 
Wyth al the wonder of the worlde, what he 

worch ^^ schulde ; 
For fele sellyez ^^ had thay sen, bot such never 

are/^ 
For-thi for fantoum and fayryye ^^ the folk 

there hit demed. 240 

Ther-fore to answare wacz arghe ^-^ mony athel 

freke/^ 
And al stouned ^^ at his steven,^" and ston-stil 

seten, 
In a swoghe sylence ^^ thurgh the sale ^^ riche ; 
As ^^ al were slypped upon slepe, so slaked 

hor lotez ^^ 

In hyye; ^^ 
I deme hit not al for doute,^^ 
Bot sum for cortaysye, 
Let hym that al schulde loute ^^ 
Cast ^^ unto that wyye.^ 

XII 

Thenn Arthour bifore the high dece ^^ that 
aventure ^^ byholdez,^^ 250 

And rekenly hym reverenced,^^ for rad ^^ was 
he never, 

And sayde, "Wyye, welcum iwys ^^ to this 
place ; 

The hede of this ostel ^^ Arthour I hat.^^ 

^ was ^ for a long time ^ man ^ each ^ what 
® knight ^ catch such a colour ^ grass ^ than 
^^ enamel ^^ gleaming ^^ nearer ^^ do '^^ many 
strange things ^^ before ^^ therefore as illusion 
and magic ^^ timid ^* many a noble knight ^^ were 
amazed ^^ voice ^^ in a swoon-like silence ^^ hall 



XI 

Long was there looking, that lord to behold, 
For each man had marvel what might be the 

nieaning 
That a horseman and a horse might such a hue 

catch. 
As grow-green as the grass and greener yet 

seemed they, 
Than green enamel on gold glowing brighter. 
All studied that stood there, and stalked to 

him nearer, 
With all the wonder in the world what wiles 

he was planning ; 
For many sights had they seen, but such a 

sight never ; 
So for phantom and faerie the folk there did 

deem it. 
Therefore to answer was fearful many a fine 

fellow, 240 

And all were stunned by his speech and stone- 
still sat they. 
In a sheer silence through the hall splendid ; 
As if they had slipped into sleep, so slacked 

they their talking, 
That day ; 
Not all for fear, I trow, 
But some in courteous way, 
Let him to whom all bow 
The stranger first assay. 



XII 

Then Arthur before the high dais that inci- 
dent beholdeth. 

And courteously accosted him, for cowed was 
he never, 

And said, "Warrior, welcome i-wis to this 
place ; 

The head of this hostel Arthur I hight. 253 

^^ as if ^^ so slackened their noises ^^ suddenly 
2^ fear ^^ but let him to whom all should bow 
( = Arthur) ^* speak ^^ dais ^° happening ^^ ob- 
serves ^^ courteously greeted him ^^ afraid ^"^ in- 
deed ^^ house ^^ I am called 



38 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



Light luflych ^ adoun, and lenge,- I the 

praye, 
And quat-so thy wylle is, we schal wyt ^ 

after." 
"Nay, as help me," quoth the hathel, "He 

that on hyghe syttes, 
To wone * any quyle ^ in this won,^ hit wacz 

not myn ernde ; '' 
Bot for ^ the los ^ of the lede " is lyft up so 

hyghe, 
And thy burgh and thy burnes " best ar 

holden, 
Stifest under stel-gere ^^ on stedes to ryde, 260 
The wyghtest ^^ and the worthyest of the 

worldes kynde, 
Preve " for to play wyth in other pvire laykez ; ^^ 
And here is kydde ^^ cortaysye, as I haf herd 

carp ^'' — • 
And that hacz wayned ^^ me hider, iwyis, at 

this tyme. 
Ye may be seker ^^ bi this braunch that I bere 

here 
That I passe as in pes, and no plyght seche.-" 
For, had I founded -^ in fere, in feghtyng wyse, 
I have a hauberghe - at home and a helme -^ 

bothe, 
A schelde, and a scharp spere, schinande 

bryght, 
Ande other weppenes to welde,"'* I v.^ene wel 

als.^^ 
Bot for ^ I wolde no were,^^ my wedez ^' ar 

softer. 
Bot if thou be so bold as alle burnez " tellen, 
Thou wyl grant me godly ^^ the gomen ^^ that 

I ask, 273 

Bi ryght." 
Arthour con onsware ^° 
And sayd, "Syr cortays knyght, 
If thou crave batayl bare, 
Here faylez thou not to fyght." 



Alight lovesomely down and linger here, so 

please thee, 
And whatso thy will is we shall wit later." 
"Nay, so help me," quoth the horseman, "He 

that on high sits. 
To dweU any while m this dwelling is not my 

due errand ; 
But that the praise of thy people is published 

so widely. 
And thy castle and thy comrades choicest 

are counted. 
Stiff est under steel-gear on steeds to en- 
counter, ■ 260 
The wightest and the worthiest of this world's 

kindred, 
Proven to play with in other pleasant contests ; 
And here is kept courtesy, as I have heard 

recounted — 
'Tis this has drawn me hither, indeed, at this 

season. 
You may be certain by this bough that I bear 

with me 
That I pass as in peace, and press for no 

quarrel. 
For had I faced you in fear or in fighting hu- 
mour, 
I have a hauberk at home and a helmet also, 
A shield and a sharp spear, shining brightly, 
And other weapons to wield, I ween 

weU like-wise. 
But as I coveted no combat, my clothing is 

softer. 
But if thou be as bold as all barons caU thee, 
Thou wilt grant me graciously the game I shall 

ask thee, 273 

By right." 
Arthur gave answer there 
And said, "Sir courteous knight, 
If thou crave battle bare, 
Here faU'st thou not to fight." 



XIII 

"Nay, frayst ^^ I no fyght, in fayth I the telle ; 
Hit arn ^^ aboute on this bench bot berdlez 

chylder. 
If I were hasped ^^ in amies on a heghe ^'^ 

stede, 
Here is no mon me to mach,''-^ for myghtez so 

wayke.^® 

^ alight graciously ^ remain ^ know ^ dwell 
^ while ^ place " errand ^ because ^ fame '" people 
^^ knights ^^ steel-gear, armour '•' stoutest ^* proven 
^* fine sports ^"^ shown ^' declare ^^ has drawn 



XIII 

"Nay, to fight am I not fain, in faith as I 

tell thee ; 
There are about on this bench but beardless 

children. 
If I were clasped in armour on a high charger. 
Here is no man to match me, for in might are 

they weaklings. 

^^ sure ^° seek no danger "^ come -- hauberk 
"^ helmet ^^ wield ^^ also ^^ war P garments 
-^ graciously ^' game ^° answered '^ ask ^- there 
are ^^ clasped *' high, tall ^^ match ^'^ weak 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



39 



For-thy^ I crave in this court a Crystemas 

gomen,^ 
For hit is Yol and Nwe Yer, and here are yep ^ 

mony; 284 

If any so hardy in this hous holdez hym-selven, 
Be so bolde in his blod, brayn ^ in hys hede, 
That dar stifly strike a strpk for an other, 
I schal gif hym of my gyft thys giserne ^ 

ryche, — 
This ax, that is lieve innogh, — to hondele ^ 

as hym lykes, 289 

And I schal bide ^ the fyrst bur,^ as bare as I 

sitte. 
If any freke ^ be so feUe ^° to fonde " that ^^ 

I telle, 
Lepe ^^ lyghtly me to, and lach ^'^ this weppen — 
I quit-clayme hit for ever, kepe hit as his 

auen ^^ — 
And I schal stonde hym a strok, stif on this 

flet,i6 
EUez thou wyl dight me the dom ^^ to dele 

hym an other ; 

Barlay ; ^^ 
And yet gif hym respite 
A twelmonyth and a day ; 
Now hyghe," and let se tite ^^ 
Dar any her-inne oght say." 300 



Therefore I crave in this court a Christmas 

gambol. 
For it is Yule and New Year, and here are 

many young braggarts ; 
If any in this house holds him so hardy, 
If he be so bold in his blood, hot-brained of 

temper 
That he dare stifHy strike one stroke for an- 
other, ■ 
I shall give him of my gift this gisarme 

splendid — 
This axe, that is heavy enough — to handle 

as he pleases; 
And I shall bide the first blow, as bare as I 

sit here. 
If any man be so mad as to make such a trial 
Let him leap to me lightly and lay hold of 

this weapon — 292 

I quit-claim it for ever, keep it as his own — ■ 
And I shall stand him a stroke, stiff on this floor, 
If thou wilt but grant me the grace to give 

him another. 

In fay ; 
Yet respite shall there be 
A twelvemonth and a day; 
Now hasten and let us see 
If any here dare aught say." 300 



XIV 

If he hem stowned ^^ upon fyrst,^ stiller were 

thanne 
AUe the hered-men ^^ in halle, the hygh and 

the lowe. 
The renk ^ on his rounce ^"^ hym ruched ^^ in 

his sadel 
And runischly ^^ his rede yyen ^^ he reled 

aboute ; 
Bende his bresed ^^ browez, blycande ^^ grene : 
Wayved his berde for to wayte ^° quo-so ^^ 

wolde ryse. 
When non wolde kepe hym with carp,^^ he 

coghed f ul hyghe ^^ 
Ande rimed hym ful richley ^"^ and ryght hym ^^ 

to speke : 
"What, is this Arthures hous," quoth the 

hathel ^^ thenne, 
"That al the rous rennes of ^'^ thurgh ryalmes 

so mony? 310 

^ therefore ^ game, amusement ^ bold, ready 
* mad ^ pole-axe ^ handle ^ abide, endure ^ blow 
^ man ^'^ fierce ^^ try ^^ what ^^ let him. leap ^'^ seize 
^^ own ^^ floor ^^ provided thou wilt give me the 
right ^* I claim this ^^ hasten ^^ quickly ^^ amazed 



XIV 

If they were astounded at first, now were, 

they stiller. 
All the henchmen in hall, the high and 

the lowly. 
The stranger on his steed then settled him in 

his saddle 
And ragingly his red eyes he rolled upon 

them; 
Bent his bushy brows, green and bristling ; 
Waved his beard as he watched whether any 

would offer. 
When none would come at his challenge, he 

coughed full loudly 
And stretched himself starkly and stayed not 

in speaking : 
"What? is this Arthur's house," quoth then 

the horseman, 
"Whereof all the renown runs through realms 

unnumbered ? 310 

22 at first 23 retainers ^4 horse ^s settled "^^ iuri- 
ously 27 eyes ^8 bristly ^9 glittering ^° observe 
^^ who-so ^2 when none would reply ^ coughed 
aloud ^"^ and made full preparation ^^ got ready 
^® knight ^^ of which all the fame goes 



40 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



Where is now your sourquydrye ^ and your 

conquestes, 
Your gryndel-layk," and your greme,^ and 

your grete wordes? 
Now is the revel and the renoun of the Rounde 

Table 
Over-wait "* wyth a worde of on wyyes ^ 

speche ; 
For al dares ^ for drede, withoute dynt ^ 

schewed ! " 
Wyth this he laghes ^ so loude, that the lorde 

greved ; 
The blod schot for scham in-to his schyre ^ 
face 

And lere.i° 
He wex as wroth as wynde ; 
So did alle that ther were. 320 

The kyng, as kene bi kjoide/^ 
Then stod that stif mon nere ^^ 



Where is now your arrogance and all your 

conquests, 
Your fierceness and your fellness and your 

fine boasting ? 
Now is the revel and the renown of the 

Round Table 
Overthrown by a word of one man's speech ; 
For all quail for cowardice, tho' no combat 

threatens ! " 
With this he laughed so loud that the lord 

was grieved ; 
The blood shot for shame into his fair cheek 
And face. 
As wrathful then as wind 
Grew all men in that place. 320 

The king, as bold by kind, 
Neared that stout man apace 



XV 

Ande sayde, "Hathel, by heven thyn askyng is 

nys,^^ 
And as thou foly hacz frayst," fynde the be- 

hoves.^^ 
I know no gome ^^ that is gast i' of thy grete 

wordes. 
Gif me now thy geserne,^^ upon Godez halve,^^ 
And I schal baythen thy bone,^" that thou 

boden " habbes." 
Lyghtly lepez he hym to, and laght -^ at his 

honde ; 
Then feersly that other freke ^^ upon fote 

lyghtis. 
Now hacz Arthure his axe, and the halme - 

grypez, 
And sturnely sturez ^ hit aboute, that stryke 

wyth hit thoght. 331 

The stif mon hym bifore stod upon 

hyght 2-» — 
Herre 2= then ani in the hous by the hede and 

more ; 
Wyth sturne chere "-^ ther he stod, he stroked 

his berde. 
And wyth a countenaunce dryye ^^ he drow 

doun his cote, 
No more mate ^^ ne dismayd for hys mayn 

dintez "^^ 

^haughtiness ^fierceness ^grimness ^overturned 
^ one man's "^ all are frightened ' stroke * laughs 
^ bright ^° cheek " as one bold by nature '^ nearer 
'^ foolish " asked ^^ it behooves thee to find 



XV 

And said, "Horseman, by heaven thy asking 

is foolish. 
And as thou folly hast craved, it behooves that 

thou find it. 
I know no man that is aghast at thy great 

boasting. 
Give me now thy gisarme, in God's name be it, 
And I will bestow the boon that thou hast 

bidden." 
Lightly he leaps to him and lays hand on the 

weapon ; 
Then fiercely the other man on foot alights 

there. 
Now has Arthur his axe, and by the handle 

holds it. 
And sternly stirs it about, to strike with it 

thinks he. 331 

The stalwart man before him stood at his full 

height — 
Higher than any in the house by a head and 

more; 
With stern look there he stood, stroking his 

beard. 
And with countenance calm he drew down his 

collar, 335 

No more moved nor dismayed for the king's 

mighty blows 

^^ man ^^ frightened ^* axe ^^ in God's name ^^ grant 
thy boon ^^ grasped " shaft ^"^ fiercely moves ^'^ stood 
tall ^^ taller '^^ fierce look '^ dry, without emotion 
^^ dispirited '^ strong blows 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



41 



Then any burne ^ upon bench hade broght 
hym to drynk, 
Of wyne. 
Gawan, that sate bi the quene, 
To the kyng he can ^ enclyne, 340 

"I be-seche now with sawez sene,' 
This melly mot ^ be myne. 



Than if any baron on the bench had brought 
him to drink 

Of wine. 
Gawain, who sat, by the queen, 
To the king he did encline, 340 

"Let bounty now be seen, 
And let this game be mine ! 



XVI 

" Wolde ye, worthitych ^ lorde," quoth Gawan 

to the kyng, 
" Bid me bowe ^ fro this benche, and stonde by 

yow there. 
That I wyth-oute vylanye myght voyde ^ this 

table, 
And that my legge * lady lyked not ille, 
I wolde com to your counseyl, bifore your cort 

ryche ; ^ 
For me think hit not semly,^" as hit is soth 

knawen," 
Ther ^^ such an askyng is hevened ^^ so hyghe 

in your sale,^* 
Thagh ye your-self be talenttyf ^^ to take hit 

to your-selven, 350 

Whil mony so bolde yow aboute upon bench 

sytten. 
That under heven, I hope,^^ non hagher ^^ er ^^ 

of wylle, 
Ne better bodyes on bent,^^ ther ^^ baret ^'^ is 

rered. 
I am the wakkest,^^ I wot, and of wyt feblest. 
And lest lur ^^ of my lyf , quo laytes the sothe ; -^ 
Bot for as much as ye ar myn em,^^ I am 

only to prayse — 
No boimte ^^ bot your blod I in my bode 

knowe — 
And sythen this note ^^ is so nys ^"^ that noght 

hit yow falles,^^ 
And I have frayned ^^ hit at yow fyrst, foldez ^^ 

hit to me ! 
And if I carp ^^ not comlyly, let alle this cort 

rych ^2 

Bout ^^ blame." 361 

Ryche ^^ to-geder con roun,^^ 
And sythen thay redden alle same,^*^ 
To ryd the kyng wyth croun,^^ 
And gif Gawan the game. 

^ than if any man ^ did ^ courteous words 
* this encounter may ^ worthy ^ move ^ leave 
^ liege ^ rich (splendid) court ^° fitting " is known 
for truth ^- where ^^ raised ^* hall ^^ desirous ^^ think 
^'^ apter, fitter ^^ are ^^ in field ^^ strife ^^ weakest 
^ least loss ^^ if any one seeks the truth ^ uncle 



XVI 

"Would you, most gracious lord," quoth 

Gawain to the king, 
"But bid me leave this bench and bide by 

you there. 
So that I without rudeness might rise from 

this table. 
And that to my liege lady there were lacking 

no courtesy, 
I would come to your counsel, before your 

court splendid ; 
For methinks it is unseemly, as sage men 

weigh things. 
When such an asking is honoured so high in 

your hall — ■ 
Though you yourself be eager for all under- 
takings — 350 
While about you on bench sit so many bold ones, 
Than whom under heaven, I think none hard- 
ier are of temper. 
Nor better bodies in battle when banners are 

lifted. 
I am the weakest, I wot, and of wit feeblest. 
And least the loss of my life, if no lie shall be 

spoken ; 
But forasmuch as you are my rmcle I am only 

of merit — 
No desert but your blood I in my body 

reckon — 
And since this affair is so foolish that you it 

befits not, 
And I have sued for it first, let my suit be 

granted ! 
And if my conduct is not comely, let all this 

court judge me 

To blame." 361 

Nobles 'gan whispering ; 
Their verdict was the same. 
To exempt the crowned king 
And give Gawain the game. 

2^ goodness "'' affair ^'' foolish ^^ becomes ^^ re- 
quested ^° grant ^^ if I speak ^^ judge ^^ without 
^^ the great ones ^^ did whisper ^^ and afterwards 
they decided unanimously ^^ to set aside the 
crowned king 



42 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



XVII 

Then comaunded the kyng the knyght for to 

ryse; 
And he f ul radly ^ up ros, and ruchched hym 

fay re, 2 
Kjieled doun bifore the kjmg, and cachez ^ 

that weppen ; 
And he luflyly hit hym laft,^ and lyfte up his 

honde, 
And gef hym Goddez blessyng, and gladly 

hym biddes 370 

That his hart and his honde schulde hardi be 

bothe. 
"Kepe the, cosyn," quoth the kyng, "that 

thou on kyrf sette,^ 
And if thou redez ® hym ryght, redly I trowe 
That thou schal byden the bur "^ that he schal 

bede » after." 
Gawan gocz ^ to the gome,^° with giserne " in 

honde, 
And he-baidly hym bydez,!^ he bayst never the 

helder.^^ 
Then carppez to Syr Gawan the knyght in the 

grene : 
"Refourme we oure forwardes,^^ er we fyrre ^^ 

passe. 
Fyxst I ethe ^® the, hathel, how that thou 

hattes," 
That thou me telle truly, as I tryst ^^ may." 
"In god fayth," quoth the goode knyght, 

" Gawan I hatte," 381 

That bede ^ the this buffet, quat-so bi-faUez 

after, 
And at this tyme twelmonyth take at the ^^ 

another, 
Wyth what weppen so thou wylt, and wyth 

no wy ellez'2^ 

On lyve." 22 
That other onswarez "^ agayn, 
'' Sir Gawan, so mot -* I thryve, 
As I am ferly fayn,"^ 
This dint that thou schal dryve.^^ 



XVII 

Then kindly the king commanded him to 

rise; 
And he came forward quickly and curtsied 

duly. 
Kneels down before the king and catches the 

weapon ; 
And he releases it lovingly and lifts up his 

hand 
And gives him God's blessing and gladly bids 

him 370 

That his heart and his hand should both be 

hardy. 
"Take care, cousin," said the king, "that 

thou carve him once. 
And if thou touchest him tidily, truly I trow 
That thou canst endure any dint that he will 

deal thee." 
Gawain goes to the green man, with gisarme 

in hand ; 
And he boldly abides him, abashed was he 

never. 
Then calls to Sir Gawain the champion in 

green : 
"Let us canvass our compact ere v/e carry 

this further. 
First, knight, I must know what thy name is ; 
That teU thou me truly that I maj^ trust to it." 
"In good faith," quoth the good knight, 

" Gawain men call me, 381 

Vv^ho shall bid thee this buffet, whate'er be- 
falls after. 
And at this time twelve month take from thee 

another. 
With what weapon so thou wilt, and from no 

wight else 

Alive." 
That other answers again, 
"Sir Gawain, so may I thrive 
As I am wondrous fain 
'Tis thou this dint shalt drive.' 



XVIII 

"Bi Gog," quoth the grene knyght, "Syr 
Gawan, me lykes,-^ 390 

That I schal fange at thy fust ^s that ^9 I haf 
frayst ^^ here ; 

^ quickly ^ stooped courteously ^ seizes ■* left, 
gave ^ take care, cousin, that thou give one stroke 
* treatest ' blow ^ offer ^ goes ^^ man " axe 
^^ awaits ^^ he quailed never the more ^* agree- 
ments ^^ further ^'^ ask " what is thy name ^* be- 



XVIII 

"By God," quoth the Green Knight, "Sir 
Gawain, I like it 390 

That I shall have from thy hand what I here 
sought for ; 

lieve ^^ Gawain is my name ^^ from thee ^' no man 
else ^- ahve *^ answers ""* may "^ wonderfully glad 
-^ that thou shalt deliver this blow -'' it pleases 
me ^^ take from tliy list ^^ what ^° asked for 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



43 



And thou hacz redily rehersed, bi resoun ful 

trwe, 
Clanly ^ al the covenaunt that I the kynge 

asked, 
Saf that thou schal siker 2 me, segge/ by thi 

trawthe. 
That thou schal seche ^ me thi-self , where-so 

thou hopes ^ 
I may be funde upon folde," and foch "^ the 

such wages 
As thou deles me to day, bifore this douthe * 

ryche." 
"Where schulde I wale ^ the?" quoth Gauan, 

"Where is thy place? 
I wot never where thou wonyes,^ bi Hym that 

me wroght, 
Ne I know not the, kynght, thy cort, ne thi 

name. 
Bot teche me truly ther-to, and telle me howe 

thou hattes,^" 401 

And I schal vv'are ^^ alle my wyt to wynne me 

theder,^^ 
And that I swere the for sothe, and by my 

seker ^^ traweth." 
"That is innogh in Nwe Yer, hit nedes no 

more," 
Quoth the gome in the grene to Gawan the 

hende," 
" Gif ^^ I the telle trwly, quen I the tape^'^ have. 
And thou me smothely hacz " smyten, smartly 

I the teche 
Of my hous, and my home, and myn owen 

nome,^^ 
Then may thou frayst my fare,i^ and for- 

wardez 2*^ holde. 
And if I spende no speche, thenne spedez 

thou the better, 410 

For thou may leng ^^ in thy londe, and layt no 

fyrre,^^ 

Bot slokes.^^ 
Ta ^'* now thy grymme tole ^^ to the, 
And let se how thou cnokez." ^^ 
"Gladly, syr, for sothe," 
Quoth Gawan ; his ax he strokes. 

XIX 

The grene knyght upon grounde graythely 

hym dresses," 
A littel lut 28 with the hede, the lere ^^ he 

diskoverez, 

^ entirely ^ promise ^ man * seek ^ believest 
® earth "^ fetch * nobility ^ dwellest ^° what is thy 
name " use ^^ to get there ^^ sure ^^ courteous ^^ if 



And thou hast rightly rehearsed, as reason 

was truly, 
Clearly all the covenant that of the king I 

asked, 
Save that thou must assure me, sir, by thy 

honour. 
That thou wilt seek me thyself in what spot 

soever 
Thou thinkst to find me, in faith, and fetch 

thee such wages 
As thou dealest me to-day before these 

doughty nobles." 
"In what chmes shall I seek thee? In what 

country is thy dwelling? 
Of thy habitation have I ne'er heard, by Him 

that wrought me ; 
Nor know I thee, knight, thy court, nor thy 

name ; 400 

But direct me to thy dwelling and disclose 

how men call thee, 
And I shall strive with my strength to steer 

my steps thither ; 
And that I swear thee surely and by my sacred 

honour." 
"That is enough at New Year; no more is 

needful," 
Quoth the grim man in green to Gawain the 

courteous ; 
"If I tell thee truly, when I the tap have taken 
And thou hast smoothly smitten me, if 

smartly I teach thee 
Of my house and my home and how men call 

me, 
Then mayst thou enquire m.y country and 

hold our covenant. 
And if I spend then no speech, thou shalt speed 

the better, 410 

For thou mayst stop in this stead and step no 

further, 

But stay. 
Take now thy grim tool duly ; 
Let's see thee hack away !" 
"Yea, sir," quoth Gawain, "truly;" 
His axe he strokes in play. 

XIX 

The Green Knight on the ground goodly pre- 
pares him ; 
Lightly lowers his head and loosens his collar, 

^^ tap, stroke ^^ hast ^* name ^^ ask my state, 
condition ^^ the agreements ^^ remain ^ seek no 
further ^ but cease ^'^ take ^^ instrument -^ knock- 
est ^'^ readily prepares himself ^ bowed ^° cheek 



44 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



His lorige lovelych lokkez he layd over his 

croun, 
Let the naked nee to the note ^ schewe. 420 
Gauan gripped to his ax, and gederes hit on 

hyght,2 
The kay ^ fot on the folde "* he be-fore sette, 
Let hit doun lyghtly lyght on the naked, 
That the scharp of the schalk ^ schyndered ^ 

the bones 
And schrank ^ thrugh the schyire grece,^ and 

scade ^ hit in twynne,i° 
That the bit of the broun stel bot " on the 

grounde. 
The fayre hede fro the halce ^^ ^^[^^is ^ the 

erthe, 
That fele ^^ hit foyned ^^ wyth her fete, there " 

hit forth roled. 
The blod brayd " fro the body, that blykked ^^ 

on the grene ; 
And nawther" faltered ne fel the freke ^o 

never-the-helder,2i 430 

Bot sty thly 22 he start forth upon styf schonkes,^^ 
And runyschly24 he raght ^^ out, there-as ^s 

renkkez ^^ stoden, 
Laght 25 to his lufly ^^ hed, and lyf t hit up sone f^ 
And sythen bowez 2" to his blonk,^^ the brydel 

he cachchez, 
Steppez in to stel-bawe ^^ and strydez alofte. 
And his hede by the here in his honde haldez ; 
And as sadly ^^ the segge ^'* hym in his sadel 

sette. 
As 25 non unhap had hym ayled, thagh ^'^ 

hedlez nowe, 

In stedde." 
He brayde ^^ his blunk ^^ aboute, 440 
That ugly bodi that bledde ; 
Moni on of hym had doute,^^ 
Bi that his resounz were redde.^'' 



His long lovely locks he lays over backward, 
Let the naked neck to the nape glisten. 420 
Gawain gripped to his axe and gathered it on 

high. 
His left foot on the floor he thrusts before 

him. 
Let the axe lightly light on the bare neck. 
So that the bright blade all the bones severs 
And slices the sinews and slits them asunder. 
So that the edge of the axe entered the earth. 
The bright head from the body bounded to 

the floor, 
And many filliped it with their feet as it 

rolled forward. 
The blood gushed from the body and glistened 

on the green ; 
But neither faltered nor fell the fearsome 

stranger, 43° 

But sturdily strode forth on his stiff shanks, 
And roughly he reached forth among the 

ranked courtiers, 
Laid hold of his lovely head, and lifted it up 

quickly ; 
And then strides to his steed, the bridle he 

seizes, 
Steps into the stirrup and straddles aloft. 
His head by the hair in his hand holding ; 
And as steadily the stranger settled him in his 

saddle 
As if no harm had happened, though he was 

headless 

I' the stead. 
He turned his steed about, 440 

That ugly body that bled ; 
Many had dread and doubt 
Ere all his words were said. 



XX 

For the hede in his honde he haldez up even, 
To-ward the derrest '^^ on the dece ^ he dres- 

sez ''■^ the face , 
And hit lyfte up the yye-lyddez,^'* and loked 

ful brode, 
And meled •^•■' thus much with his muthe, as ye 

may now here. 

1 head ^ high ^ left ^ ground ^ edge ^ sun- 
dered ^ cut ^ pure gristle ^ divided ^° two ^^ bit, 
cut ^^ neck " fell ^'^ many ^^ thrust ^'^ where 
" spouted ^* shone ^^ neither ^^ man ^^ never the 
more -^ sturdily ^'■^ shanks ^* roughly ^^ reached 



XX 

For the head in his hand he holds up even. 
Toward the most daring on the dais he 

addresses the face ; 
And it lifted up its cyeUds and looked about 

it, 
And held discourse high, as you shall now 

hear. 

2'' wliere ^^ men ^^ lovely ^^ immediately ^^ goes 
^^ horse ^^ stirrup ^^ steadily ^■' fellow ^^ ^^ jf 
38 though " in the place ^^ turned ^^ fear '"' by 
the time his remarks were made ^^ bravest 
*^ dais " directs •*■* eye-lids '"' spoke 



GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT 



45 



"Loke, Gawan, thou be graythe^ to go as 

thou hettez, ^ 
And layte ^ as lelly * til thou me, lude/ 

fynde, 
As thou hacz hette ^ in this halle, herande '' 

thise knyghtes. 450 

To the grene chapel thou chose, ^ I charge the, 

to fotte ; 9 
Such a dunt ^*' as thou hacz dalt ^^ disserved 

thou habbez,^^ 
To be yederly yolden ^^ on Nw Yeres morn. 
The Knyght of the Grene Chapel, men knowen 

me mony ; ^'' 
For-thi ^^ me for to fynde, if thou fraystez,^® 

faylez thou never ; 
Ther-fore com, other " recreaunt be calde the 

be-hoves." 
With a runisch route ^^ the raynez he tornez, 
Hailed ^^ out at the hal-dor, his hed in his 

hande, 
That the fyr of the fiynt fiawe ^° from fole 

hoves.-^ 
To quat kyth he be-com,^^ knewe non there. 
Never more then thay wyste from quethen ^ 

he wacz wonnen,^'' 461 

What thenne ? 
The kyng and Gawen thare. 
At that Grene thay lage and grenne. 
Yet breved ^^ wacz hit ful bare ^^ 
A mervayl among tho ^'^ menne. 



"See, Gawain, that thou be sedulous to seek 

as thou saidest, 
And search assiduously till thou, sir, dost find 

me. 
As thou has promised in this presence before 

these proven knights. 
To the Green Chapel do thou go, I charge 

thee truly. 
Such a dint as thou hast dealt deserved hast 

thou, 452 

To be yarely yielded on New Year's morning. 
As the Knight of the Green Chapel, I am 

known to many ; 
Thou shalt not fail to find me if faithfully 

thou triest ; 
Therefore come or coward to be called shall 

behoove thee." 
With reckless roughness the reins he twitches, 
Hurls out of the hall-door, his head in his hand. 
So that fire from the flint flew from his steed's 

hoofs. 
To what region he rode none could say 

rightly, 460 

Any more than they wist by what way he 

had come. 

What then? 
The king and Gawain there 
Did laugh at the Knight in Green. 
'Twas counted a marvel rare 
Such as men had never seen. 



XXI 

Thagh ^^ Arther the hende ^^ kyng at hert hade 

wonder. 
He let no semblaunt be sene, bot sayde ful 

hyghe ^° 
To the comlych Queue, wyth cortays speche, 
"Dere dame, to-day demay ^^ yow never ; 470 
Wei bycommes ^^ such craft upon Crist- 

masse, 
Laykyng ^^ of enterludez, to laghe and to 

syng 
Among ^"^ thise kynde ^^ caroles of knyghtez 

and ladyez. 
Never-the-lece ^^ to my mete ^'^ I may me wel 

dres,^^ 
For I haf sen a selly,^^ I may not for- 
sake." « 



XXI 

Though Arthur the high king in his heart had 

wonder, • 
He let no semblance be seen, but spoke full 

gayly 
To the comely Queen with courteous phrases, 
"Dear Lady, to-day dismay you never. 470 
Such crafts are becoming at the Christmas 

season. 
Listening to such interludes and laughing and 

singing. 
While these lords and ladies lead forth their 

carols. 
But now have I license and leave to look on my 

food, 
For strange is the sight that I have seen 

truly." 



ready ^ didst promise ^ seek * faithfully ^ man what land he went ^^ whence ^^ come ^^ accounted 
omised "^ hearing ^ go ^ on foot ^^ blow ^^ hast ^^ entirely '^'^ those ^^ though ^^ courteous ^^ loud 

^^ suitable ^® nevertheless ^"^ food ^^ address ^^ mar- 
vel ^^ deny 



" ready ' aidst promise •' seek * taithiully " man 
* promised "^ hearing ^ go ® on foot ^^ blow ^^ hast 
dealt ^2 hast ^^ promptly paid ^^ many men know 
me ^^ therefore ^^ enquirest ^'' or ^* sudden noise 

I Q I 1 on n Ol .' .1 1 .1 ^ 00 . 



.It " nast " promptly paid " many men know 
me ^^ therefore ^^ enquirest ^'' or ^* sudden noise 
^^ rushed ^^ flew ^^ from the horse's hoofs ^^ to 



en 



46 



PEARL 



He glent ^ upon Syr Gawen, and gaynly ^ he 

sayde, 
"Now, syr, heng up thyn ax, that hacz innogh 

hewen." 
And hit wacz don ^ abof the dece, on doser ^ 

to henge, 
Ther alle men for mervayl myght on hit loke. 
And bi trwe tytel ther-of ^ to telle the wonder. 
Thenne thay bowed ^ to a borde,'' thise 
burnes ^ to-geder, 481 

The kyng and the gode knyght ; and kene ^ 

men hem served 
Of alle dayntyez double, as derrest ^° myght 

falle — 
Wyth alle maner of m.ete and mynstralcie 

bothe ; 
Wyth wele wait thay that day, til worthed an 
ende ^^ 

In londe. 
Now thenk wel, S)T Gawan, 
For wothe ^- that thou ne wonde ^^ 
This aventure forto frayn " 
That thou hacz tan ^^ on honde 490 



He glanced at Sir Gawain and graciously said 

he, 
"Now, sir, hang up thine axe, it has had 

enough hewing." 
And it was hung on high behind the dais. 
Where all men for a marvel might look 

upon it 
And take it as true witness when they told 
of the wonder. - 480 

Then they turned to the table, these two lords 

together, 
The king and the good knight ; and gentle 

squires served them 
Of all dainties double that were to them 

dearest — ■ 
With all manner of meat and minstrelsy also ; 
With all delights did they deal until that day 
ended 

In land. 
Nov/ think well, Sir Gawain, 
That thou hast taken in hand 
The adventure to maintain, 
Whatever may withstand. 490 



PEARL (c. 1350) 
(Unknown Author) 



Perle plesaunte to prynces paye ^^ 
To clanly clos ^" in golde so clere ; 
Oute of oryent, I hardyly saye, 
Ne proved I never her precios pere,^^ 
So rounde, so reken in uche araye,^^ 
So smal, so smothe her sydez were ; 
Queresoever I jugged gemmez gaye, 
I sette hyr sengeley in synglere.^" 

Alas ! I leste ^^ hyr in on erbere ; ^^ 
Thurgh gresse to grounde hit fro me 

yot ; ^^ 
I dewyne, for-doLked of luf-daungere -■* 
Of that pryvy perle withouten spot. 12 



A radiant pearl for royal array 
Clean to enclose in gold so clear.;, ^ 
Out of the Orient, I boldly say, 
Found have I never her precious peer, 
So pure, so perfect at each assay ,- 
So small, so smooth that blissful sphere; 
Wherever I judged of jewels gay, 
I set her apart as the prize most dear. 
Alas! in an arbor I lost her here, 
Slipping through grass to earth, I wot ; 
I pine, cut off from the loving cheer 
Of my own pearl without a spot,- . 12 



II 

Sythcn ^^ in that spote hit fro me sprange, 
Ofte haf I wayted, wyschande -'' that wele,-'' 
That wont wacz whyle ^ devoyde ^^ my 
wrange 



II 

There where I lost it, since have I long 
Waited and wished for returii of the weal 
That whilom made me forget my wrong. 



* glanced ^ kindly ^ put * tapestry ^ and on the respect ^^ alone in uniqueness ^^ lost 
/idence of it ^ went ' table * knights ^ brave bor ^^ departed ^'^ I pine away, depri^ 



evidence of it ^ went ' table ivinyuLb uittvc 
^^ dearest " in joy they spent the day, till it came 
to end '^ injury '^ hesitate ^^ seek '^ taken ^^ de- 
light '^ cleanly to enclose ^* equal ^^ fit in every 



love-dominion ^^ since ^^ wishinc 
formerly ^^ to remove 



weal 



PEARL 



47 



And heven ^ my happe and al my hele ; ^ 
That docz bot thrych my herte thrange,^ 
My breste in bale '' bot bolne and bele.^ 
Yet thoght me never so swete a sange- 
As sty He stounde ^ let to me stele; 20 

Forsothe ther fleten '' to me fele.^ — 
To thenke hir color so clad in clot ! ^ 
moul ^° thou marrez a myry juele/^ 
My privy perle withouten spotte. 



And brought me comfort, my spirit to heal, 
That now is oppressed with passions strong 
Till all my senses whirl and reel. 
Yet me-thought was never so sweet a song 
As the quiet hour to me let steal ; 20 

Many strange fancies did it reveal — 
To think that her fairness earth should 

clot! 
O grave, the rarest of gems thou dost seal, 
My own dear pearl without a spot. 



V 

Bifore that spot my honde I spennd,^^ 
For care ful colde that to me caght ; ^^ 50 
A denely dele in my herte denned,^'* 
Thagh resoun sette my selven saght.^^ 
I playned ^" my perle that ther wacz spenned," 
Wyth fyrte skyllez ^^ that faste faght ; ^"^ 
Thagh kynde of Kryst me comfort kenned,2° 
My wreched wylle in wo ay wraghte."^ 
I f elle upon that floury flaght ; ^^ 
Suche odour to my hernez ^^ schot, 
I slode upon a slepyng-slaghte ^^ 
On that precios perle withouten spot. 



V 

Before that spot my hands I spread. 

For care full cold that me had caught ; 50 

In my heart dark sorrow made its bed, 

Though reason reconciled my thought. 

I prayed for my pearl that thence had sped, 

With timid pleas, and fast they fought ; 

Though the godhead of Christ me comforted, 

My wretched will in woe still wrought. 

A bed among the flowers I sought ; 
Such fragrance pierced my brain, I wot, 
Me into a sleep of dreams it brought 
Of that precious pearl without a spot. 



XIV 

More mervayle con my dom adaunt ; ^^ 

I segh 2® by-yonde that myry mere '" 

A crystal clyffe ful relusaunt,^ 

Mony ryal ray con fro hit rere ; ^ 160 

At the fote thereof ther sete a faunt,^'' 

A mayden of menske,^^ ful debonere, 

Blysnande whyte wacz hyr bleaunt ; ^^ 

I knew hyr wel, I hade sen hyr ere.^^ 

As glysnande goide that man con 
schere ^* 

So schon that schene anunder schore ; ^^ 

On lenghe ^^ I looked to hyr there ; 

The lenger, I knew hyr more and more.^^ 

XV 

The more I frayste ^^ hyr fayre face, 

Her figure fyn quen I had fonte,^^ 170 

Suche gladande glory con to me glace *" 

^ lift up ^ prosperity ^ does but oppress my 
heart grievously * distress * swell and burn ® the 
quiet hour '' float * many things ^ clod ^^ earth 
^^ jewel 1^ stretched out ^^ that seized upon me 
^■^ a secret sorrow lay in my heart ^^ though rea- 
son reconciled all difficulties ^* lamented ^'' was 
taken away ^^ timid reasons ^^ fought hard 
^ though Christ's nature taught me comfort 
^^ wrought -" bed of flowers ^^ brains ^* I slided ■ 



XIV 

More wonder my judgment stole away ; 

I saw beyond that river fair 

A crystal cliff as clear as day. 

Its royal rays gleamed through the air; 160 

At its foot there sat a child full gay, 

A mannerly maiden, debonair. 

All argent white was her array ; 

I knew her well, I had seen her ere. 

As glistening gold, refined and rare. 

So sheen she shone upon the shore ; 

Long vv'hile I looked upon her there ; 

The longer, I knew her more and more. 



XV 

The more I questioned her fair face 

And came to know her figure bright, 170 

Such joy shed over me its grace 

into a dream ^^ a greater wonder daunted my 
judgment ^^ saw ^ pleasant water ^ gleaming 
^ man}'' a royal gleam arose from it ^ child 
^* grace ^^ gleaming white was her attire ^^ before 
^^ that one has refined ^^ so shone that beautiful 
one beneath the cliii ^® a long time ^ the longer 
I looked the more certainly I knew her ^* ques- 
tioned •'' when I had examined ** such delight 
came to me 



48 



PEARL 



As lyttel byf ore therto wacz wonte ; 

To calle hyr lyste con me enchace/ 

Bot baysment ^ gef myn hert a brunt ; ^ 

I segh hyr in so strange a place, 

Such a burre myght make myn herte blunt. ^ 
Thenne verez ho up her fayre froimt,^ 
Hyr vysayge whyt as playn yvore,^ 178 
That stonge myn hert ful stray 

atount/ 
And ever the lenger, the more and 
more. 



That scarce before I had known delight ; 

Desire to address her grew apace, 

But abashment filled my heart with fright ; 

Seeing her in so strange a place 

Full well my heart astonish might. 

Then lifts she up her forehead white. 
Her visage fairer than e'er before ; 178 
Bewildered my heart was at the sight 
And ever the longer, the more and 



XX 

Pyght ^ in perle, that precios pyece 

On wyther-half water ^ com doun the schore ; i" 

No gladder gome hethen " into Grece 231 

Then I quen ho on brymme wore.^^ 

Ho wacz me nerre ^^ then aunte or nece. 

My joy forthy wacz " much the more. 

Ho profered me speche, that special spece/^ 

Enclynande lowe in wommon lore,^® 

Caghte of her coroun of grete tresore, 
And haylsed me wyth a lote lyghte.^^ 
Wei wacz me that ever I wacz bore. 
To sware ^^ that swete in perlez 
pyghte. 

XXI 

"O Perle," quoth I, "in perlez pyght, 241 
Art thou my perle that I haf playned,^' 
Regretted by myn one, on nyghte? 2° 
Much longe}Tig haf I for the layned,^^ 
Sythen in-to gresse thou me aglyghte ; 22 
Pensyf, payred,^^ I am for-payned,^^ 
And thou in a lyf of lykyng lyghte ^' 
In paradys erde,-"^ of stryf unstrayned. 

What wyrde hacz hyder my juel 
vayned,^'^ 

And don me in thys del "^ and gret 
daunger ? 

Fro we in twynne wern towen and 
twayned ^* 

I haf ben a joylez jueler." 2° 252 

^ desire to speak to her seized me ^ timidity 
' attack ^ such a surprise might well astound 
me * then she lifts her fair face ^ ivory ^ that 
struck me into bewilderment * set ^ on the 
opposite side of the water ^° cliff " person from 
hence ^^ than I when she was at the bank '^^ she 
was nearer to me ^^ on that account was ^^ she 
spoke to me, that rare one ^^ bowing low as women 



XX 

All decked with pearls that precious piece 
Beyond the water came down the shore ; 
None gladder than I hence unto Greece 231 
When she stood on the bank there me before. 
She was nearer to me than aunt or niece, 
And my joy was therefore much the more. 
That special treasure spoke words of peace, 
With womanly grace herself she bore, 

Took ofif the wondrous crown she wore, 
And greeted me with look full bright. 
What happy fortune for me in store — 
To answer that sweet with pearls be- 
dight. 

XXI 

"O Pearl," quoth I, "with pearls bedight, 241 
Art thou my pearl that I still mourn, 
Regretted by me alone at night ? 
With longing for thee am I outworn ; 
Since in the grass thou wert lost to sight, 
Pensive and pining am I forlorn, 
And thou, in a life of glad delight, 
Strife-free, dost Paradise adorn. 

What Weird hath hither my jewel 
borne, 

Me here in sorrow and stress to find ? 

I have been, since we apart were 
torn, 

A joyless jeweler 'mid my kind." 252 



are taught ^'^ greeted me pleasantly ^* answer 
^^ lamented 2° alone by night ^^ suffered secretly 
^2 since thou didst slip away from me into the 
grass -^ weakened -•* worn with grief ^^ and thou 
in a life of delightful pleasure "® land ^^ what fate 
has brought my jewel hither ^^ put me in this 
grief -^ since we were drawn apart and separated 
™ possessor of jewels 



PEARL 



49 



XXII 

That juel thenne in gemmez gente ^ 

Vered up her vyse ^ with yghen ^ graye, 
, Set on hyr coroun of perle orient, 

And soberly after thenne con ho say : - 

"Syr, ye haf your tale myse-tente,^ 

To say your perle is al awaye, 

That is in cofer, so comly clente,® 

As in this gardyn gracios gaye, 260 

Here-inne to lenge '^ for-ever and play, 
Ther mys nee mornyng ^ com never 

nere; 
Her were a forser ^ for the, in faye, 
If thou were a gentyl jueler. 



XXII 

That jewel in gems so wondrous wrought 
Up lifted her face with eyes of grey, 
Set on her crown of pearls far-sought, 
And soberly after began to say : 
"Oh, sir, your mind is all distraught 
To say that your pearl hath passed away, 
That into so comely a coffer is brought 
As in this garden gracious-gay, ,. 260 

Herein to dwell for ever and play. 
Where moan or mourning none shall 

find; 
Here were a casket for thee, in fay, 
If thou, my jeweller, wert kind. 



XXIII 

"Bot, jueler gente, if thou schal lose 
Thy joy for a gemme that the wacz lef,^" 
Me thynk the put " in a mad porpose, 
And busyez the aboute a raysoun bref ; ^^ 
For that thou lestez " wacz bot a rose. 
That flowred and fayled as kynde ^* hit gef ; 
Now thurgh kynde " of the kyste ^^ that hyt 
con ^® close, 271 

To a perle of prys hit is put in pref ; ^^ 

And thou hacz called thy wyrde^* a thef. 
That oght of noght hacz mad the cler ; ^* 
Thou blamez the bote 2° of thy meschef , 
Thou art no kynde jueler." 



XXIII 

"But, jeweller gentle, if thus is crossed 
Thy joy for a gem that was dear to thee, 
Methinks thou art by madness tossed. 
O'er a trifle to fret so busily ; 
It was only a rose that thou hast lost. 
Which flowered and faded naturally; 270 
By charm of the chest that it embossed 
It was changed to a pearl of price, dost see ? 

Thou callest a thief thy destiny, 

That aught of naught has made thee. 
Blind, 

Thou blam'st of thy hurt the remedy ; 

My jeweller, thou art not kind !" 



LXIII 

"O maskelez ^i perle, in perlez pure. 
That berez," quod I, "the perle of prys, 
Quo 2^ formed the thy f ayre fygure ? 
That wroght thy wede,^ he wacz ful wys ; 
Thy beaute com never of nature ; 
Pymalyon paynted never thy vys ; ^^ 750 

Ne Arystotel nawther by hys lettrure 
Of carped the kynde these propertez.^^ 

Thy colour passez the flour-de-lys, 
Thyn angel-havynge so clene cortez ; ^s 
Breve ^'^ me, bryght, quat-kyn offys ^^ 
Berez the perle so maskellez." 



^ beautiful ^ lifted her face ^ eyes * she said 
^ distorted ^ set ^ remain * where lack nor mourning 
^ jewel-box ^° was dear to thee ^^ I regard thee as 
put ^^ small affair ^^ didst lose ^^ nature ^^ chest 
^^ did " put in proof = turned ^^ fate ^^ that has 



LXIII 

"O spotless pearl, in pearls so pure, 
That the priceless pearl," quoth I, "dost bear. 
Who formed for thee thy beauty's lure, 
Or wrought thee the weeds that thou dost wear ? 
Nature was never so cunning, sure ; 
Pygmalion to paint thee would never dare ; 
Aristotle, for all his literature, 751 

Could never recount thy virtues rare ; 

Than the fleur de lys thou art more fair. 
In gracious bearing the angels' mate. 
Tell me what troth in heaven there 
Is pledged to the pearl immaculate?" 



clearly made for thee something of nothing 
^^ remedy ^^ spotless ^ who ^^ garment ^* face 
^^ described thy beauties of nature ^^ courteous 
^^ inform '^^ what office or position 



50 



PEARL 



LXIV 

"My maskelez Lambe that al may bete," ' 

Quod scho,2 "my dere destyne, 

Me ches ^ to hys make,^ al-thagh immete. 

Sum tyme semed that assemble, 760 

When I wente fro yor worlde wete ; ^ 

He calde me to hys bonerte : ^ 

'Cum hyder to me, my lemman ^ swete, 

For mote ne spot is non in the.' 

He yef ^ me myght and als ^ bewte ; 

In hys blod he wesch my wede ^° on 
dese,^i 

And coronde clene in vergjoite. 

And pyght me in perlez maskellez." 



LXIV 

"My spotless Lamb, who far and wide 
Heals all — my Master dear," quoth she, 
"Me all unworthy chose for his bride; 
Oh! long that waiting seemed to me, 760 

When I from your damp world did gUde! 
He called me to his charity : 
' Come hither, sweetheart, to my side. 
For mote or spot is none in thee.' 

Beauty and strength he gave to me, 
In his blood he washed me, with sin 

bespate. 
He crowned me clean in virginity, 
And decked me with pearls immacu- 
late." 



LXXXI 

"Motelez ^^ may, so meke and mylde," 

Then sayde I to that lufiy Q.ox,^^ 962 

"Bryng me to that bygly bylde,i^ 

And let me se thy blysfiil bor." ^^ 

That schene ^^ sayde, that " God wyl 

schylde, 
"Thou may not enter with-inne hys tor,!^ 
Bot of the Lombe I have the ^^ aquylde ^^ 
For a syght ther-of thurgh gret favor. 

Ut-wyth 21 to se that clene cloystor, 
Thou may ; bot in-wyth ^^ not a fote. 
To strech in the strete thou hacz no 
vygour, 971 

Bot thou wer clene with-outen mote." 



LXXXI 

"Spotless maid, so mild and meek," 

Then said I to that flower bright, 962 

"Me to thy palace bring, and eke 

Of thy blissful bower give me sight." 

Sweetly — God shield her ! — did she speak : 

"That tower may enter no earthly wight; 

But of the Lamb did I favour seek 

That thou from afar shouldst see its light ; 

From without that cloister see aright 

Thou mayest indeed; but within, 
step not ; 

To walk in the street thou hast no 
might. 

Unless thou wert clean, without a 
spot." 972 



XCVI 

The Lombe delyt non lyste to wene ; ^ 
Thagh he were hurt and wounde hade, 
In his sembelaunt -"* wacz never sene ; 
So wern his glentez -'" gloryous glade. 
I loked among his meyny schene,^^ 
How thay wyth lyf wern laste and lade,^^ 
Then sagh I ther my lyttel queue. 
That I wende -^ had standen by me in sclade.^^ 
Lorde ! much of mirthe wacz that ho ^^ 

made, 
Among her f erez ^^ that wacz so quyt ! ^^ 
That syght me gart ^^ to think to wade. 
For luf-longyng in gret delyt. 1152 



^ amend ^ said she ^ chose * mate ^ wet * good- 
:ss '' sweetheart * gave * also ^" garment '^ dais 
spotless ^^ flower ^* great building ^^ bower 



imcnci ' sam sne " cnose ' mate " wet " good- 
ness '' sweetheart * gave * also '" garment '^ dais 
otless ^^ flower ^* great building ^^ bowei 
autif ul one ^^ whom ^'^ tower ^^ for thee ^^ ob- 



XCVI 

The Lamb lacked no delight, I ween ; 1141 
Hurt though he was, by wounds betrayed. 
In his semblance this was no whit seen ; 
So did his glorious looks persuade. 
I looked among his comrades clean. 
How brimmmg life upon them he laid. 
Then saw I there my little queen, 
That I thought stood near me in the glade. 

Lord ! much of mirth was that she 
made, 

Among her sisters all so white ! 

That vision moved me to think to wade, 

For love-longing in great delight. 1152 

tained ^^ from without ^ within ^ wished to doubt 
^'^ appearance ^^ looks ^^ beautiful company ^^ sup- 
plied and laden ^* thought ^* valley ^° she ^^ com- 
panions ^^ white ^^ caused 



CONFESSIO AMANTIS 



51 



XCVII 

Delyt me drof in yghe ^ and ere ; 

My manez ^ mynde to maddyng malte.^ 

Quen I segh ^ my frely,^ I wolde be there, 

By-yonde the water thagh ho ^ were waited 

I thoght that no-thyng myght me dere,^ 

To fech me bur and take me halte ; ^ 

And to start m the strem schulde non me 

stere/" 
To swymme the remnaunt, thagh I ther 
swalte ; ^^ 
Bot of that munt ^^ I wacz bi-talt ; ^^ 1 1 6 1 
When I schulde start in the strem 

astraye, 
Out of that caste ^^ I wacz by-calt ; ^^ 
Hit wacz not at my pryncez paye.^^ 

XCVIII 

Hit payed " hym not that I so flonc ^^ 
Over mervelous merez/' so mad arayde ; 
Of raas ^o thagh I were rasch and ronk,^! 
Yet rapely ^^ ther-inne I wacz restayed ; 
For ryght as I sparred un-to the bone, 
That bratthe ^^ out of my drem me brayde ; ^'^ 
Then wakned I in that erber wlonk,^^ 11 71 
My hede upon that hylle wacz layde 

Ther as my perle to grounde strayd ; 
I raxled ^ and fel in gret affray,^'' 
And sykyng ^ to myself I sayd : 
"Now al be to that pryncez paye." ^^ 



XCVII 

Delight me drove in eye and ear ; 
My earthly mind was maddened nigh. 
When I saw my darling, I would be near, 
Beyond the water that she stood by : 
"Nothing," methought, "can harm me here, 
Deal me a blow and low make lie ; 
To wade the stream have I no fear, 
Or to svv^im the deeps, though I should 
die." 1 1 60 

But from that purpose withheld was I ; 

As unto the stream I started still. 

Clean from that plan I was turned 
awry; 

It was not at my Prince's will. 



xcvin 

It pleased him not I should pass quite, 
O'er marvellous meres, so mad arrayed ; 
Though in my rush I had strength and might, 
Yet hastily therein I was stayed ; 
For as I strove to the bank aright. 
My haste me of my dream betrayed ; 1 1 70 
Then waked I in that arbor bright, 
My head upon that mound was laid 

Where my own pearl to ground had 
strayed. 

I roused me, with many a fear a-thrill,. 

And sighing to myself I said : 

"Now all be at that Prince's will." 



JOHN GOWER (i325?-i4o8) 
From CONFESSIO AMANTIS Bk. V 



Jason, which sih ■* his fader old. 

Upon Medea made him bold 

Of art magique, which sche couthe,® 

And preith hire that his fader 2° youthe 

Sche wolde make ayeinward ^^ newe. 

And sche, that was toward him trewe, 3950 

Behihte ^^ him that sche wolde it do 

Whan that sche time sawh ^ therto. 

Bot ^^ what sche dede in that matiere 

It is a wonder thing to hiere, 

Bot yit for the novellerie ^* 

I thenke tellen a partie.^^ 

^ eye ^ man's ^ melted ^ saw ^ gracious one ^ she 
^ kept * injure ® to fetch me an assault and take 
me lame ^° prevent ^^ perished ^- purpose ^^ shaken 
^^ intention ^^ recalled ^^ pleasure ^^ pleased 



Jason, who saw his father old, 

Upon Medea made so bold — 

Of magic art she knew, in sooth — 

And prays her that his father's youth 

She would bring back again as new. 

And she, that was to him full true, 3950 

Promised him that she would it do 

When that she saAv her time thereto. 

But how she wrought this for his cheer 

It is a wondrous thing to hear, 

Yet for the novelty of it 

I think to tell you just a bit. 



should fling ^^ waters ^^ onset ^^ strong ^ quickly 
^^ haste '* moved ^^ fair ^® roused ^^ fear ^^ sighing 
^^ knew ^° father's ^^ again ^ promised ^^ but 
** novehy ^ part 



52 



JOHN GOWER 



Thus it befell upon a nyht , 
Whan ther was noght hot sterreliht,^ 
Sche was vanyssht riht as hir liste,^ 
That no wyht hot hirself it wiste, 3960 

And that was ate ^ mydnyht tyde. 
The world was stille on every side ; 
With open ^ hed and fot al bare, 
Hir her tosprad,^ sche gan to fare ; 
Upon hir clothes gert ^ sche was ; 
Al specheles and '' on the gras 
Sche glod ^ forth as an addre doth — 
Non otherwise sche ne goth — 
Til sche cam to the freisshe flod, 
And there a while sche withstod.^ 3970 

Thries sche torned hire aboute, 
And thries ek sche gan doun loute ^^ 
And in the flod sche wette hir her, 
And thries on the water ther 
Sche gaspeth with a drecchinge ^^ onde,i2 
And tho 1^ sche tok hir speche on honde. 
Ferst sche began to clepe " and calle 
Upward unto the sterres alle, 
To Wynd, to Air, to See, to Lond 
Sche preide, and ek hield up hir hond 3980 
To Echates ^^ and gan to crie. 
Which is godesse of sorcerie. 
Sche seide, "Helpeth at this nede, 
And as ye maden me to spede,^® 
Whan Jason cam the Flees " to seche, 
So help me nou, I you beseche." 
With that sche loketh and was war, ^^ 
Doun fro the sky ther cam a char,i^ 
The which dragouns aboute drowe. 
And tho 1^ sche gan hir hed doun bowe. 
And up sche styh,^" and faire and wel 3991 
Sche drof forth bothe char and whel 
Above in thair 21 among the skyes.^^ 
The lond of Crete and tho parties ^^ 
Sche soughte, and faste gan hire hye,^^ 
And there upon the hulles ^^ hyhe 
Of Othrin and Olimpe also. 
And ek of othre hulles mo, 
Sche fond and gadreth herbes suote.^^ 
Sche pulleth up som be the rote, 4000 

And manye with a knyf sche scherth," 
And alle into hir char sche berth. ^^ 
Thus whan sche hath the hulles sought. 
The flodes ^^ ther forgat ^° sche nought, 
Eridian and Amphrisos, 

^ starlight ^ as it pleased her ^ at the ^ un- 
covered ^ her hair unbound ^ girded " Gou'er 
often gives and a strange position in the sentence; 
we should place it before al. * glided ^ stood still 



Thus it befell upon a night. 
When there was nought but starry light, 
She stole away right as she list. 
So that none but herself it wist, 3960 

And that was at the midnight tide. 
The world was still on every side. 
With head uncovered, feet all bare, 
Her hair unbound, she gan to fare ; 
High up her clothes she girded has ; 
And, speechless, forth upon the grass 
She glided as an adder does — 
And in no other wise she goes — 
Till she came to the flowing flood, 
And there a while fuU still she stood. 3970 
Three times about she turned her now. 
And thrice also she low did bow. 
And in the flood she wet her hair. 
And thrice upon the water there 
She with a troubling breath blew fast, 
And then unto her speech she passed. 
First she began to cry and call 
Unto the stars of heaven all ; 
To Wind, to Air, to Sea, to Land 
She prayed there, holding up her hand, 3980 
And unto Hecate did she cry. 
Who goddess is of sorcery. 
She said : "Oh, help me in this need, 
And as ye once made me to speed, 
When Jason came, the Fleece to seek, 
Sp now your aid I do bespeak." 
With that she looked and saw on high 
A chariot gUding from the sky. 
Which, dragons drawing, downward sped, 
And then she bowed adown her head, 3990 
And up she rose, drove weU and fair 
Both car and wheel on through the air. 
Above and through the clouds of sky. 
The land of Crete and parts near by 
She sought, and fast began her hie ; 
And there upon the mountains high 
Of Othrim and Olympus too, 
And other mountains eke thereto. 
She found and gathers herbs of boot. 
She pulleth some up by the root, 4000 

And many with a knife she shears, 
And all unto her car she bears. 
Thus when she hath the mountains sought, 
The rivers there forgot she not ; 
Eridian and Amphrisos, 

10 bow " troubling ^- breath ^^ then " cry ^^ Hec- 
ate ^'^ succeed ^' fleece ^* aware ^^ chariot ^° rose 
2^ the air ^'- clouds ^^ those parts -■' hasten '= hills 
26 sweet 2" cuts -'* bears, carries -^ rix'crs ^° forgot 



CONFESSIO AMANTIS 



53 



Peneie and ek Spercheidos. 

To hem sche wente and ther sche nom ^ 

Bothe of the water and the fom, 

The sond and ek the smale stones, 

Whiche-as sche ches ^ out for the nones ; ^ 

And of the Rede See a part 401 1 

That was behovehch to hire art 

Sche tok, and after that aboute 

Sche soughte sondri sedes oute 

In feldes and m many greves/ 

And ek a part sche tok of leves ; 

Bot thing which mihte hire most availe . 

Sche fond in Crete and in Thessaile. 

In daies and in nyhtes nyne, 
With gret travaile and with gret pyne, 4020 
Sche was pourveid of every piece, 
And torneth homward into Grece. 
Before the gates of Eson 
Hir char sche let awai to gon. 
And tok out f erst that was therinne ; 
For tho sche thoghte to beginne 
Suche thing as semeth impossible, 
And made hirselven invisible, 
As sche that was with air enclosed 
And mihte of noman be desclosed. 4030 

Sche tok up turves of the lond 
Withoute helpe of mannes hond, 
Al heled ^ with the grene gras. 
Of which an alter mad ther was 
Unto Echates, the goddesse 
Of art magique and the maistresse. 
And eft ^ an other to Juvente, 
As sche which dede hir hole entente J 
Tho tok sche fieldwode and verveyne — 
Of herbes ben noght betre tueine ; ^ 4040 

Of which anon v^'ithoute let 
These alters ben aboute set. 
Tuo sondri puttes ^ faste by 
Sche made, and with that hastely 
A wether which was blak sche siouh,^'' 
And out ther-of the blod sche droiih ^^ 
And dede ^^ into the pettes ^ tuo ; 
Warm melk sche putte also therto 
With hony meynd ; ^" and in such wise 
Sche gan to make hir sacrifice. 4050 

And cride and preide forth withal 
To Pluto, the god infernal, 
And to the queene Proserpine. 
And so sche soghte out al the line 
Of hem that longen to that craft, 
Behinde was no name laft,^** 



Peneie and eke Spercheidos. 

To them she went and there took some 

Both of the water and the foam. 

The sand and eke the little stones. 

Whereof she chose out special ones ; 4010 

And of the Red Sea too a part 

That was behooveful for her art 

She took, and, after that, about 

She sought there sundry seeds then out 

In many a wood and many a field ; 

Their leaves she made the trees to yield ; 

But that which best her need did meet 

She found in Thessaly and Crete. 

Nine days and nights had passed before. 
With labour great and pain fuU sore, 4020 
She was purveyed with every piece, 
And turneth homeward unto Greece. 
At Eson's gates then did she stay. 
And let her chariot go away ; 
But took out first what was therein, 
For then her plan was to begin 
Such things as seemed impossible. 
And made herself invisible, 
As she that was with air enclosed 
And might to no man be disclosed. 4030 

She took up turfs from off the land, 
Without the help of human hand. 
All covered with the growing grass, 
Of which an altar made she has 
To Hecate, who was the goddess 
Of magic art and the mistress, 
And still another to Juvente, 
As one fulfilling her intent. 
Then took she wormwood and vervain — 
Of herbs there be no better twain ; 4040 

With which anon, without delay, 
She set these altars in array. 
Two sundry pits quite near thereby 
She made, and with that hastily, 
A wether which was black she slew, 
And out thereof the blood she drew, 
And cast in the pits without ado ; 
And warm milk added she thereto 
With honey mixed ; and in such wise 
Began to make her sacrifice. 4050 

And cried and prayed aloud also 
To Pluto, god of all below. 
And to the queen's self, Proserpine. 
And so she sought out all the line 
Of those that to that craft belong — 
Forgot she none of all the throng — 



^ took " chose ^ for the purpose * groves ^ cov- ^^ slew ^^ drew -^^ put ^^ mixed ^^ left 
jain '^ entire purpose ^ twain, two ^ pits 



ered ® again 

AE 



54 



JOHN GOWER 



And preide hem alle, as sche wel couthe/ 
To grante Eson his ferste youthe. 

This olde Eson broght forth was tho ; ^ 
Awei sche bad alle othre go, 4060 

Upon peril that mihte falle ; 
And with that word thei wenten alle, 
And leften there hem tuo al-one. 
And tho sche gan to gaspe and gone,^ 
And made signes many-on, 
And seide hir wordes therupon ; 
So that with spellinge of hir charmes 
Sche took Eson in both hire armes. 
And made him for to slepe faste, 
And him upon hire herbes caste. 4070 

The blake wether tho sche tok. 
And hiewh ^ the fleissh , as doth a cok ; 
On either alter part sche leide, 
And with the charmes that sche seide 
A fyr doun fro the sky al3^hte 
And made it forto brenne lyhte. 
Bot whan INIedea sawh it brenne, 
Anon sche gan to sterte and renne ^ 
The fyri aulters al aboute. 
Ther was no beste which goth oute 4080 

More wylde than sche semeth ther : 
Aboute hir schuldres hyng ^ hir her. 
As thogh sche were oute of hir mynde 
And torned in an other kynde.'^ 
Tho 2 lay ther certein wode cleft, 
Of which the pieces nou and eft * 
Sche made hem in the pettes wete, 
And put hem in the fyri hete, 
And tok the brond with al the blase, 
And thries sche began to rase 4090 

Aboute Eson, ther-as ^ he slepte ; 
And eft with water, which sche kepte, 
Sche made a cercle aboute him thries, 
And eft with fyr of suiphre twyes. 
Ful many an other thing sche dede. 
Which is noght writen in this stedc^** 
Bot tho ^ sche ran so up and doun, 
Sche made many a wonder soun, 
Somtime hch ^^ unto the cock, 
Somtime unto the laverock, ^^ 4100 

Somtime kacleth as a hen, 
Somtime spekth as don the men ; 
And riht so as hir jargoun strangeth,^* 
In sondri wise hir forme changeth, 
Sche semeth faie " and no womman ; 
For with the craftes that sche can 
Sche was, as who seith, a goddesse. 



And prayed them all, as she well could, 
To grant Eson his yomig manhood. 

This old Eson was brought forth, lo ! 
Away she bade aU others go, 4060 

On peril of what might befall ; 
And with that word then went in all. 
And left out there alone those two. 
Gasping and pacing, with much ado, 
She made her signs fuU many a one, 
And said her magic words thereon ; 
So that with spelling of her charms 
She took Eson in both her arms, 
And caused him to sleep full fast. 
And on the herbs him sleeping cast. 4070 

The wether blark then next she took. 
And hewed the flesh as doth a cook ; 
On either altar part she laid, 
And with the charms that she hath said 
A fire down from the sky did light 
And m.ade the flesh to burn full bright. 
But when Medea saw it burn. 
Anon she leaped and ran in turn 
The fiery altars all about. 
There was no beast which goeth out 4080 
More wild than she herself seemed there ; 
About her shoulders hung her hair. 
As though she were out of her mind 
And turned into another kind. 
There certain wood lay cleft in twain. 
Of which the sticks, now and again, 
She made them in the pits full wet, 
And in the fiery heat them set ; 
And took the brand with aU the blaze, 
And thrice with it, as in a race, 4090 

Ran about Eson as he slept. 
And then with water Tv^hich she kept 
She made a circle rovmd him thrice, 
And then with fire of sulphur twice. 
And other things she did, I wot. 
Which in this place are written not. 
But, running up and down the groimd, 
She made full many a wondrous sound ; 
Sometimes like unto the cock. 
Sometimes like the laverock, 4100 

Sometimes cackleth as a hen, 
Sometimes speaketh as do men. 
And as she made her jargon strange. 
Her form in sundry wise did change. 
She seemed no woman but a fay ; 
For with the crafts she did assay 
She was, as one might say, goddess. 



^ could - then ^ walk ^ hewed 
^ nature ^ now and again ^ where 



' run ® hung ^^ lark " becomes strange " faiiy 
' place ^^ like 



CONFESSIO AMANTIS 



55 



And what hir liste, more or lesse, 

Sche dede, in bokes as we finde, 

That passeth over manneskinde.^ 41 lo 

Bot who that wole of wondres hiere, 

What thing sche wroghte in this matiere, 

To make an ende of that sche gan,^ 

Such merveile herde nevere man. 

Apointcd in the newe mone, 
Whan it was time forto done, 
Sche sette a caldron on the fyr, 
In which was al the hole atir,^ 
Whereon the medicine stod, 
Of jus, of water, and of blod, 4120 

And let it buile ■* in such a plit, 
Til that sche sawh the spume whyt ; 
And tho sche caste in rynde ^ and rote, 
And sed and flour that was for bote,^ 
With many an herbe and many a ston. 
Whereof sche hath ther many on. 
And ek Cimpheius the serpent 
To hire hath alle his scales lent, 
Chelidre hire yaf his addres skin, 
And sche to builen caste hem in; 4130 

A part ek of the horned oule, 
The which men hiere on nyhtes houle ; 
And of a raven, which was told 
Of nyne hundred wynter old, 
Sche tok the hed with al the bile ; ^ 
And as the medicine it wile, 
Sche tok therafter the bouele ^ 
Of the seewolf , and for the hele ^ 
Of Eson, with a thousand mo 
Of thinges that sche hadde tho, 4140 

In that caldroun togedre as blyve.^" 
Sche putte ; and tok thanne of olyve 
A drie branche hem with to stere," 
The which anon gan floure and bere 
And waxe al freissh and grene ayein. 
Whan sche this vertu hadde sein, 
Sche let the leste drope of alle 
Upon the bare flor doun falle ; 
Anon ther sprong up flour and gras, 
Where-as the drope falle was, 4150 

And wox anon al mcdwe ^^ grene, 
So that it mihte wel be sene. 
IMedca thanne knew and wiste 
Hir medicine is forto triste,'^ 
And goth to Eson ther " he lay, 
.And tok a swcrd was of assay '^ 
With which a wounde upon his side 
Sche made, that therout mai slyde 



And whatso pleased her, more or less. 

She did, as we in books may find. 

Deeds that pass skill of human kind. 41 10 

But whoso will of wonders hear. 

What things she wrought by magic clear 

To make an end of all her spell. 

Of crafts like hers heard no man tell. 

Just as the moon had changed to new, 
When it was time her task to do, 
She laid a cauldron on the fire, 
In which was placed the mass entire 
Wherein the magic virtues stood 
Of juice, of water, and of blood, 4120 

And let it boil therein aright 
Till she could see the bubbles white ; 
And then she cast in bark and root, 
And seed and flower both to boot, 
With many a herb and many a stone, 
Whereof she hath there many a one. 
And eke Cimpheius, the serpent, 
To her hath all his scales now lent, 
Chelidre, the adder, gave his skin. 
And she to the bofling cast them in ; 4130 
A part too of the horned owl. 
The which men hear at night-time howl ; 
And of a raven which had told 
His fuU nine hundred winters old 
She took the head with all the bill ; 
And as the medicine it will. 
Of sea wolf she the bowel took. 
And for the healing did it cook 
Of Eson ; — and a thousand more 
Of things that she had still in store 4140 

Within that cauldron cast full quick. 
Of olive then a withered stick 
She took, to stir that mixture rare. 
And lo, the stick did flower and bear. 
And waxed again all fresh and green ! 
When she this virtue well had seen, 
She let the smallest drop of all 
Upon the barren earth down fall ; 
At once there sprang up flower and grass, 
Just where the falling drop did pass, 4150 
And waxed at once all meadow-green, 
So that it clearly might be seen. 
Medea then full surely knew 
Her medicine was strong and true ; 
And goes to Eson where he lay, 
And took a sword of good assay. 
With which a wound within his side 
She made, that so thereout may slide 



^ that surpasses human nature - began ' equip- 
ment * boil * bark * remedy ' bill ^ intestine 



' healing ^^ quickly 
^■^ where ^^ proof 



" stir *' meadow " trust 



56 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 



The blod withinne, which was old 4159 

And sek and trouble and fieble and cold. 

And tho sche tok unto his us ^ 

Of herbes al the beste jus, 

And poured it into his v/ounde ; 

That made his veynes fulle and sounde. 

And tho sche made his wounde clos, 

And tok his hand, and up he ros. 

And tho sche yaf ^ him drinke a drauhte, 

Of which his youthe ayein he cauhte. 

His hed, his herte and his visage 

Lich ^ unto twenty wynter age ; 4170 

Hise hore heres were away. 

And lich unto the freisshe Maii, 

Whan passed ben the colde schoures, 

Riht so recovereth he his floures. 



The blood within him, which was old 

And sick and troubled and feeble and cold. 

And then she took unto his use 4161 

Of all the herbs the potent juice, 

And poured it all into his wound, 

That made his veins all full and sound ; 

And then she made his wound to close ; 

And took his hand, and up he rose. 

A draught to drink she gave him then, 

From which his youth he caught again, 

His head, his heart, and his visage. 

Like unto twenty winters' age; 4170 

His hoary hairs vanished away ; 

And like unto the lusty May, 

When passed are all the chilling showers, 

Right so recovereth he his flowers. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1340 ?-i4oo) 
TROILUS AND CRISEYDE 



From BOOK I 

And. so bifel,^ whan comen was the tyme 
Of Aperil, whan clothed is the mede ^ 
With newe grene, of lusty Ver ^ the pryme. 
And swote ^ smellen floures whyte and rede. 
In sondry wyses shewede, as I rede, 
The folk of Troye hir * observaunces olde, 
Palladiones ^ feste for to holde. 161 

And to the temple, in al hir ^ beste wyse, 
In general, ther wente many a wight, 
To herknen of Palladion the servyse ; 
And namely,^" so many a lusty knight, 165 
So many a lady fresh and mayden bright, 
Ful wel arayed, bothe moste " and leste, 
Ye,^^ bothe for the seson and the feste. 

Among thise othere folk was Criseyda, 

In widewes habite blak ; but nathelees, 170 

Right as our firste lettre is now an A, 

In beautee first so stood she, makelees ; ^^ 

Hir goodly looking gladede al the prees.^^ 

Nas ^^ never seyn thing to ben preysed derre,^® 

Nor under cloude blak so bright a sterre 175 

As was Criseyde, as folk seyde everichoon ^^ 
That hir bihelden in hir blake wede ; ^* 
And yet she stood ful lowe and stille alloon, 
Bihinden othere folk, in litel brede," 

^use ^gave ^likfe ^it happened ^meadow 
* spring ^ sweet ^ their ^ of the Palladium '" espe- 
cially '^greatest ^'^ yea ^^ peerless ^* crowd ^^ was 
not ^^ more dearly " every one ^** garment ^^ space 



And neigh the dore, ay under shames drede. 
Simple of atyr, and debonaire of chere, 181 
With ful assured loking and manere. 

This Troilus, as he was wont to gyde 
His yonge knightes, ladde hem up and doun 
In thilke ^ large temple on every syde, 185 
Biholding ay the ladyes of the toun, 
Nov/ here, now there, for no devocioun 
Hadde he to noon, to reven ^ him his reste. 
But gan to preyse and iakken ^ whom him 
leste.^ 

And in his walk full fast he gan to wayten ^ 
If knight or squyer of his companye 191 

Gan for to syke,^ or lete his eyen bayten ^ 
On any woman that he coude aspye ; 
He wolde smyle, and holden it folye, 194 

And seye him thus, " God wot, she slepeth softe 
For love of thee, whan thou tornest ful ofte. 

"I have herd told, pardieux, of your livinge, 
Ye lovers, and your lewede ^ observaunces. 
And which ^ a labour folk han i" in winninge 
Of love, and in the keping which ^ dou- 

taunces ; ^^ 
And whan your preye is lost, wo and pen- 

aunces ; 
O verrey foles ! nyce ^^ and blinde be ye ; 202 
Ther nis ^^ not oon can war " by other be." 

' that same ^ take away ^ blame ■* it pleased 
* observe '' sigh ' feast * silly ^ what sort of ^^ have 
^^ perplexities ^ foolish ^^ is not ^* cautious 



TROILUS AND CRISEYDE 



57 



And with that word he gan cast up the browe, 
Ascaunces/ "Lo! is this nought wysly 

spoken?" 
At which the god of love gan loken rowe ^ 
Right for despyt, and shoop ^ for to ben 

wroken ; * 207 

He kidde ^ anoon his bowe nas not broken ; 
For sodeynly he hit him at the fuUe ; — • 
And yet as proud a pekok can he puUe ! ^ 

bhnde world, O blinde entencioun ! '' 211 
How ofte falleth al theffect * contraire 

Of surquidrye ^ and foul presumpcioun ; 
For caught is proud, and caught is debonaire. 
This Troilus is clomben on the staire, 215 

And litel weneth that he moot descenden. 
But al-day ^^ falleth thing that foles ne 
wenden.^^ 

As proude Bayard ginneth for to skippe 
Out of the wey, so priketh him his corn,^^ 
Til he a lash have of the longe whippe, 220 
Than thenketh he, "Though I praunce al 

biforn, 
First in the trays, ful fat and newe shorn, 
Yet am I but an hors, and horses lawe 

1 moot endure, and with my feres ^^ drawe." 



From BOOK 11 

:J: Hi * * * Hi * 

With this he ^^ took his leve, and hoom he 

wente ; 
And lord, how he was glad and wel bigoon ! ^^ 
Criseyde aroos, no lenger she ne stente,^^ 
But straught in-to hir closet wente anoon. 
And sette here ^'^ doun as stille as any stoon, 
And every word gan up and doun to winde. 
That he hadde seyd, as it com hir to minde; 

And wax somdel ^^ astonied in hir thought, 
Right for the newe cas ; but whan that she 
Was ful avysed,^^ tho '^'^ fond she right nought 
Of peril, why she oughte afered be. 606 

For man may love, of possibilitee, 
A womman so his herte may to-breste,^^ 
And she nought love ayein, but-if hir leste.^^ 

^ as if to say " cruel ^ planned * avenged ^ made 
knov/n ^ pluck " purpose ^ result ^ overweening 
^^ constantly ^^ did not expect ^^ food ^^ fellows 
^■^ i.e. Pandarus ^^ happy ^^ delayed ^^ her '■^ some- 
what ^^ had considered thoroughly ^° then ^^ burst 
^^ unless it please her 



But as she sat allone and thoughte thus, 610 
Thascry ^ aroos at skarmish al with-oute, 
And men cryde in the strete, "See, Troilus 
Hath right now put to flight the Grekes 

route!" 2 
With that gan al hir meynee ^ for to shoute, 
"A ! go we see, caste up the latis "* wyde ; 615 
For thurgh this strete he moot ^ to palays 

ryde ; 

"For other wey is fro the yate ® noon 
Of Dardanus, ther '' open is the cheyne." ^ 
With that come he and al his folk anoon 
An esy pas rydinge, in routes ^ tweyne, 620 
Right as his happy day was, sooth to seyne. 
For which men say, may nought disturbed be 
That shal bityden of necessitee. 

This Troilus sat on his baye stede, 

Al armed, save his heed, ful richely, 625 

And wounded was his hors, and gan to blede, 

On whiche he rood a pas, ful softely ; 

But swych a knightly sighte, trewely, 

As was on him, was nought, v^^ith-outen fade, 

To loke on Mars, that god is of batayle. 630 

So lyk a man of armes and a knight 
He was to seen, fulfild of heigh prowesse ; 
For bothe he hadde a body and a might 
To doon that thing, as wel as hardinesse ; 
And eek to seen him in his gere ^° him dresse, 
So fresh, so yong, so weldy " semed he, 636 
It was an heven up-on him for to see. 

His helm to-hev/en ^^ was in twenty places, 

That by a tissevv^ heng, his bak bihinde, 

His sheld to-dasshed vv^as with swerdes and 

maces, 640 

In which men mighte many an arwe finde 
That thirled ^^ hadde horn and nerf ^'*- and 

rinde ; ^* 
And ay the peple cryde, "Here cometh our 

joye, 
And, next his brother, holdere up of Troye ! 

For which he wex a Htel reed for shame, 645 
When he the peple up-on him herde cryen, 
That to biholde it was a noble game. 
How sobreliche he caste doun his yen. 
Cryseyda gan al his chere aspyen, 

^ the shout 2 crowd ^ household ^ lattice ^ must 
^ gate ^ where * chain ^ companies ^^ gear, equip- 
ment " active ^ cut through ^^ pierced " sinew 
IS hide 



58 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 



And leet ^ so softe it in hir herte sinke, 650 
That to hir-self she seyde, "Who yaf ^ me 
drinke?"3 

For of hir owene thought she wex al reed, 
Remembringe hir right thus, "Lo, this is he 
Which that myn uncle swereth he moot be 

deed,^ 
But ^ I on him have mercy and pitee ;" 655 
And with that thought, for pure a-shamed,*' 

she 
Gan in hir heed to pulle, and that as faste, 
Whyl he and al the peple for-by paste. 

And gan to caste and rolen up and doun 
With-inne hir thought his excellent prowesse. 
And his estat, and also his renoun, 661 

His wit, his shap, and eek his gentillesse; 
But most hir favour was for "^ his distresse 
Was al for hir, and thoughte it was a routhe ^ 
To sleen ^ swich oon, if that he mente trouthe. 

Now mighte some envyous jangle thus, 666 
" This was a sodeyn love, how mighte it be 
That she so lightly lovede TroUus 
Right for the firste sighte; ye, pardee?" 
Now who-so seyeth so, mote ^° he never 
thee ! " 670 

For everything, a ginning ^^ hath it nede 
Er al be wrought, with-outen any drede. 

For I sey nought that she so sodeynly 
Yaf ^ him her love, but that she gan enclyne 
To lyk him first, and I have told yow why ; 
And after that, his manhood and his pyne 676 
Made love with-inne hir herte for to myne. 
For which, by proces and by good ser\^yse, 
He gat hir love, and in no sodeyn wyse. 



From BOOK V 

The morwe " com, and goostly " for to speke, 
This Diomede is come un-to Criseyde, 1031 
And shortly, lest that ye my tale breke. 
So wel he for him-selve spak and seyde. 
That alle hir sykes ^^ sore adoun he leydc. 
And fjmally, the sothe for to seyne, 1035 

He refte ^*^ hir of the grete ^' of al hir payne. 

^ let ^ gave ^ a potion ^ must die •'' unless •"' for 
ver>' shame ^because " pity ^ slay ^^ may '^ thrive 
^ beginning ^' morrow ''' spiritually ^^ sighs ^^ de- 
prived ^^ great (most) 



And after this the story telleth us, 
That she him yaf ^ the faire baye stede, 
The which she ones wan of Troilus ; 
And eek ^ a broche (and that was litel nede) 
That Troilus was, she yaf ^ this Diomede. 
And eek, the bet ^ from sorwe him to releve, 
She made him were ■* a pencel ^ of hir sieve. 

1043 
I finde eek in the stories eUes-where, 
Whan through the body hurt was Diomede 
Of ^ Troilus, tho weep ' she many a tere. 
Whan that she saugh his wyde woundes 
blede; 1047 

And that she took to kepen him good hede ; 
And for to hele him of his sorvs-es smerte, 
Men se>Ti, I not,* that ghe yaf him hir herte. 

But trewely, the story telleth us, 105] 

Ther made never wom^man more wo 
Than she, whan that she falsed TroUus. 
She seyde, "Alias ! for now is clene a-go ^ 
My name of trouthe m love, for ever-mo ! 
For I have falsed oon the gentHeste 1056 

That ever was, and oon the worthieste ! 

"Alias, of me, un-to the worldes ende, 
Shal neither been y-writen nor y-songe 
No good word, for thise bokes wol me shende.^'' 
O, rolled shal I been on many a tonge ; 1061 
Through-out the world my beUe shal be ronge ; 
And wommen most wol hate me of alle. 
Alias, that swich a cas me sholde falle ! 

"They wol seyn, in as muche as in me is 

I have hem " don dishonour, weylawey ! 1066 

Al be I not the firste that dide amis, 

What helpeth that to do ^^ my blame awey ? 

But sin 1^ I see there is no bettre way. 

And that to late is now for me to rewe," 1070 

To Diomede algate ^° I wol be trewe. 

"But, Troilus, sin ^^ I no better may. 

And sin ^^ that thus departen ye and I, 

Yet preye I God, so yeve ^^ yow right good 

day 
As for the gentileste, trewely, 1075 

That ever I say," to serven fcithfuUy, 
And best can ay his lady ^^ honour kcpe : " — 
And with that word she brast ^^ anon -" to 

wepe. 

^gavc ^ also ^better ■* wear ^pencil, small flag 
''by "then wept * know not ^ gone ^^ shame 
^^ them '^ put ^^ since ^^ repent ^'^ at any rate 
16 gi^e 17 g^^y 18 ladj-'s ^^ burst "" at once 



THE CANTERBURY TALES 



59 



"And certes, yow ne haten shal I never, 
And freendes love, that shal ye han of me, 
And my good word, al ^ mighte I liven ever. 
And trewely, I wolde sory be 1082 

For to seen yow in adversitee. 
And giltelees, I woot ^ wel, I yow leve ; ' 
But al shal passe; and thus take I my 
leve." 1085 

But trewely, how longe it was bitwene, 
That she for-sook him for this Diomede, 
Ther is non auctor telleth it^I wene.* 
Take every man now to his bokes hede ; 
He shal no terme finden, out of drede.^ 1090 
For though that he bigan to wowe hir sone, 
Er he hir wan, yet was ther more to done.^ 

THE CANTERBURY TALES 

From THE PROLOGUE 

Whan that Aprille vv^ith hise shoures soote ' 
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the 

roote 
And bathed every veyne ^ in swich ^ licour 
Of which vertu engendred is the flour ; 
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 5 
Inspired hath in every holt ^° and heeth 
The tendre croppes,^" and the yonge Sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours ^^ y-ronne, 
And smale foweles ^^ maken melodye 
That slepen al the nyght with open eye, — 
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,^^ — 11 
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, 
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,i^ 
To feme halwes,^'' kowthe " in sondry londes ; 
And specially, from every shires ende 15 

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they vvende, 
The hooly blisful martir for to seke. 
That hem hath holpen whan that they were 
seeke. 

Bifil ^^ that in that seson on a day. 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 20 

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage 
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,^^ 
At nyght was come into that hostelrye 
Wel ^° nyne-and-twenty in a compaignye. 
Of sondry folk, by aventure ^^ y-falle 25 

^ although - know ^ abandon * think ^ without 
doubt ^ do ' showers sweet * vein ^ such ^° forest 
^^ twigs ^^ In April the sun's course lies partly in the 
zodiacal sign of the Ram and partly in that of the Bull. 
^^ birds ^'^ in their hearts ^^ foreign strands ^^ dis- 
tant shrines " known ^^ it happened ^^ heart ^° full 
"^ chance 



In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle. 

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 

The chambres and the stables Averen wyde, 

And wel we weren esed atte beste.^ 

And, shortly, whan the. Sonne was to reste, 30 

So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 

That I was of hir felaweshipe anon. 

And made forward ^ erly for to ryse, 

To take oure wey, ther-as I yow devyse.^ 

But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, 
Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 36 

Me thynketh it accordaunt to resoun 
To telle yow al the condicioun ■* 
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me. 
And whiche ^ they weren and of what degree, 
And eek in what array that they were inne ; 
And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne. 42 

A Knyght ther was and that a worthy man, 
That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
To riden out, he lovede chivalrie, 45 

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes' werre. 
And thereto ^ hadde he riden, no man ferre,'' 
As wel in Cristendom as in hethenesse, 
And ever honoured for his worthynesse. 50 
At Alisaundre he was v/han it was wonne ; 
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne * 
Aboven alle nacions in Pruce.® 
In Lettow ^° hadde he reysed " and in Ruce,^^ 
No Cristen man so ofte of his degree. ^^ 55 
In Gernade ^^ at the seege eek hadde he be 
Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye.^^ 
At Lyeys ^® was he, and at Satalye,i^ 
Whan they were wonne ; and in the Crete 

Seei^ 
At many a noble armee ^* hadde he be. 60 

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene. 
And foughten for oure feith at Tramysserse ^^ 
In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 
This ilke i^ worthy knyght hadde been also 
Somtyme with the lord of Palatye ^^ 65 

Agayn ^° another hethen in Turkye ; 
And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys.^^ 
And though that he were worthy, he was wys, 
And of his port ^^ as meeke as is a mayde. 
He never yet no vileynye ^ ne sayde 70 

^ made comfortable ^ agreement ^ describe 
■* character ^ what sort ^ besides "^ farther ^ begun 
the board (sat at the head of the table) ^ Prussia 
^° Lithuania " made expeditions ^ Russia ^^ rank 
" Granada ^^ A district in Africa. ^^ Places in 
Asia Minor. " Mediterranean ^* armed expedition 
^^ same ^° against ^^ high esteem ^^ bearing -^ dis- 
courtesy 



6o 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 



In al his lyf unto no maner wight. 
He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght. 

But for to tellen yow of his array, 
His hors were goode, but he was nat gay ; 
Of fustian ^ he wered a gypon ^ 75 

Al bismotered ^ with his habergeon ; * 
For he was late y-come from his viage,^ 
And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 

With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squier, 
A lovyere and a lusty bacheler, 80 

With lokkes cruUe,^ as ^ they were leyd in 

presse. 
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of evene lengthe,^ 
And wonderly delyvere ^ and greet of 

strengthe ; 
And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachye,^" 
In Flaundres, in Artoys and Pycardye, 86 
And born hym weel, as of so litel space. 
In hope to stonden in his lady " grace. 
Embrouded was he, as it were a meede ^- 
Al ful of fresshe fioures whyte and reede ; 90 
Syngynge he was or floytynge ^^ al the day ; 
He was as fressh as is the monthe of May. 
Short was his gowne, with sieves longe and 

wyde; 
Wei coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde ; 
He coude songes make and wel endite,^^ 95 
Juste and eek daunce and weel purtreye and 

write. 
So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale ^^ 
He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. 
Curteis he was, lowely and servysable, 
And carf ^^ biforn his fader at the table. 100 
A Yeman " hadde he,^^ and servants namo " 
At that tyme, for hym liste ride soo ; 
And he was clad in cote and hood of grene ; 
A sheef 2° of pocok ^^ arwes bright and kene 
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily — • 105 

Wel coude he dresse ^^ his takel "^ yemanly ; 
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres 

lowe ^'^ — 
And in his hand he bar a myghty bowe. 
A not-heed ^^ hadde he with a broun visage. 
Of woodecraft wel koude he al the usage, no 
■ Upon his arm he bar a g^y bracer, 
And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler,^'' 

^ coarse cloth ^ shirt ' soiled ^ coat of mail 
^ voyage ® curly ^ as if ® medium height * active 
^^ cavalry expeditions ^^ lady's ^^ meadow " whis- 
tling ^* compose ^^ night-time ^'' carved '^ yeoman 
'** the hiighl ^'^ no more ^" bundle of twenty-four 
^^ peacock ^^ take care of "^^ equipment ^'* worn and 
clipped short ^^ closely cut hair ^^ small shield 



And on that oother syde a gay daggere 
Harneised wel and sharpe as point of spere ; 
A Cristofre ^ on his brest of silver sheen e ; 
An horn he bar, the bawdryk - was of grene. 
A forster was he soothly, as I gesse. 117 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hir smylyng was ful S3'mple and 

coy; ^ 
Hire gretteste ooth was but by Seiint Loy,* 
And she was cleped ^ madame Eglentyne. 121 
Ful weel she songe the service dyvyne, 
Entuned in hir nose ful semely ; 
And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly ^ 
After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe,'' 125 
For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle, 
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 
Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe ; 
Wel coude she carie a morsel and wel kepe 
That no drope ne fille upon hire breste. 131 
In curteisie was set ful muchel hir leste.* 
Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene, 
That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene 
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir 

draughte. 
Ful semely after hir mete she raughte,^ 136 
And sikerly 1° she was of greet desport,^^ . 
And ful plesaunt and amy able of port,^^ 
And peyned hire ^^ to countrefete " cheere ^'^ 
Of court, and been estatlich ^^ of manere, 140 
And to ben holden digne " of reverence. 
But, for to speken of hire conscience, 
She was so charitable and so pitous 
She wolde wepe if that she saugh ^* a mous 
Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 
Of smale houndes ^^ hadde she, that she fedde 
With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel-breed ; 2° 
But sore wepte she, if oon of hem were deed,-"- 
Or if men ^^ smoot it with a yerde -^ smerte ; -^ 
And al was conscience and tendre herte. 150 
Fid semyly ^^ hir wympul ^*^ pynched 2' was ; 
Flire nose tretys,^* hir eyen grcye as glas, 
Hir mouth ful smal and ther-to softe and reed; 
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed ; 
It was almoost a spanne brood I trowe, 155 
For, hardily,-" she was nat undergrowe. 

^ an image of his patron saint ^ cord ^ quiet 
^ By St. Eligius, a very mild oath ^ named 
^ skilfully "^ A convent near London. ^ pleasure 
' reached ^° certainly " good humour ^- bearing 
^^ exerted- herself " imitate ^^ fashions ^'^ dignified 
" worthy ^* saw ^^ little dogs "^^ cake bread -' died 
"^ any one "^^ stick "^^ sharply -^ neatly "^^ face-cloth 
^■^ pinched, plaited -** well-formed ''•* certainly 



THE CANTERBURY TALES 



Ful fetys ^ was hir cloke, as I was war ; ^ 
Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar 
A peire ^ of bedes gauded "* al with grene, 
And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,^ 
On which ther was first write a crowned A, 
And after Amor vincit omnia. 162 

Another Nonne with hire hadde she, 
That was hire chapeleyne ; and Preestes thre. 
A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie,'' 
An outridere that lovede venerie/ 166 

A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
Ful many a deyntee ^ hors hadde he in stable. 
And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel 

heere 
Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd as cleere 1 70 
And eek as loude as dooth the chapel-belle 
Ther-as this lord v/as kepere of the celle.^ 
The reule of Seint Maure or of Seint Beneit, 
By-cause that it was old and som-del streit 1° — 
This ilke monk leet olde thynges pace 175 
And heeld after the newe world the space. 
He yaf nat of that text a pulled ^^ hen 
That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men, 
Ne that a monk when he is recchelees ^^ 
Is likned til a fissh that is wateriees ; 180 

This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre. 
But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre ; 
And I seyde his opinioun was good ; 
What sholde he studie and make hym-selven 

wood,^^ 
Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, 185 
Or swynken " with his handes and laboure 
As Austyn bitP^^ How shal the world be 

served ? 
Lat Austyn have his swynk '^ to him reserved. 
Therfore he was a pricasour ^^ aright ; 
Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight : 
Of prikyng " and of huntyng for the hare 191 
Was al his lust,^^ for no cost wolde he spare. 
I seigh 1^ his sieves purfiled ^'^ at the hond 
With grys,^^ and that the fyneste of a lond ; 
And for to festne his hood under his chyn 195 
He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pyn ; 
A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 
His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas. 
And eek his face as it hadde been enoynt. 
He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; ^^ 

^ well-made ^ as I perceived ^ set ^ Every 
eleventh head was a large green one. ^ beautiful 
^ an extremely fine one ^ hunting ^ fine '^ A 
cell is a branch monastery. ^^ strict ^^ plucked 
^^ vagabond ^^ crazy ^^ work ^'^ bids ^® hunter 
" tracking ^^ pleasure ^^ saw ^^ edged ^^ grey fur 
^- en hon point, fleshy 



Hise ej^en stepe ^ and roUynge in his heed, 

That stemed ^ as a forneys of a leed ; ^ 

His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat. 

Now certeinty he was a fair prelaat. 

He was nat pale, as a forpyned ^ goost ; 205 

A fat swan loved he best of any roost. 

His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 

A Frere ther was, a wantown and a merye, 
A lymytour,^ a ful solempne ** man. 
In alle the ordres foure '' is noon that can ^ 
So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage ; 211 
He hadde maad ful many a mariage 
Of yonge wommen at his owene cost. • 
Unto his ordre he was a noble post ; 
Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 215 

With frankeleyns ^ over-al in his contree ; 
And eek with worthy wommen of the toun. 
For he hadde power of confessioun. 
As seyde hym-self, moore than a curat. 
For of his ordre he was licenciat. 220 

Ful swetely herde he confessioun. 
And plesaunt was his absoiucioun. 
He was an esy man to yeve penaunce 
Ther-as ^° he wiste " to have a good pit- 

aunce ; ^^ 
For unto a povre ordre for to yive 225 

Is signe that a man is wel y-shryve. 
For, if he ^^ yaf, he ^'* dorste make avaunt 
He wiste that a man was repentaunt ; 
For many a man so harde is of his herte 
He may nat wepe al-thogh hym soore smerte. 
Therfore instede of v/epynge and preyeres 
Men moote yeve silver to the povre freres. 
His typet was ay farsed ^^ full of knyves 233 
And pynnes, for to yeven faire wyves. 
And certeinly he hadde a murye ^'^ note ; 235 
Wel coude he synge and pleyen on a rote ; ^^ 
Of yeddynges ^^ he bar outrely the pris. 
His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys ; 
Ther-to he strong was as a champioun. 
He knew the tavernes well in every toun 24.0 
And everich hostUer and tappestere " 
Bet ^° than a lazar "^ or a beggestere ; ^^ 
For unto swich a worthy man as he 
Acorded nat, as by his facuitee, 
To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce ; 245 
It is nat honeste,^^ it may nat avaunce 

^ large ^ gleamed ^ cauldron ^ tortured to death 
* licensed to beg in a certain district ® imposing 
"^ Dominican, Franciscan, Carmelite and Austin 
friars. ® knows ^ rich farmers ^^ where ^^ knew 
^^ pittance, gift ^^ the man ^'* the friar ^^ stuffed 
^^ merry ^^ fiddle ^^ popular songs ^^ bar-maid 
^^ better ^^ beggar "^ female beggar ^^ becoming 



62 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 



For to deelen with no swiche poraille.^ 
But al with riche and selleres of vitailie, 
And over-ai,^ ther-as ^ profit sholde arise 
Curteis he was and lowely of servyse. 250 
Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous ; ^ 
He was the baste beggere in his hous, 
For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho,^ 
So plesaunt was his In principio,^ 
Yet wolde he have a ferthyng '' er he wente : 
His purchas ^ was wel bettre than his rente.* 
And rage he koude, as it were right a whelpe.^" 
In love-dayes " ther coude he muchel helpe, 
For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer 
With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler, 
But he was lyk a maister, or a pope ; 261 

Of double worstede was his semi-cope, ^^ 
That rounded as a belle, out of the presse.^^ 
Somwhat he lipsed for his wantownesse," 
To make his Enghssh swete upon his tonge ; 
And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde 
songe, 266 

Hise eyen twynkled in his heed aryght 
As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. 
This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd. 

A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, 
In mottelee,^^ and hye on horse he sat ; 271 
Upon his heed a Flaundrish bever hat, 
His botes clasped faire and fetisly.^^ 
His resons " spak he ful solempnely,^* 
Souning ^* alway thencrees ^° of his winning. 
He wolde the see were kept for anything ^^ 
Betwixe Middelburgh and OreweUe. 
Wel coude he in eschaunge ^^ sheeldes ^'' selle. 
This worthy man ful weU his wit bisette ; ^'^ 
Ther wiste ^^ no wight that he was in dette, 
So estatly was he of his governaunce 281 

With his bargaynes and with his chevisaunce.^^ 
For sothe he was a worthy man withalle. 
But sooth to seyn,^'' I noot ^* how men him 
calle. 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also 285 

That unto logyk hadde longe y-go. 
As leene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he nas nat right fat, I undertake, 

^ poor folk ^ everywhere ^ where * full of good 
qualities ^ shoe ^ St. John i, i, used as a greeting. 
'' bit ^ gettings * what he paid for his begging privi- 
leges or his regular income ^^ puppy ^^ arbitration 
days '^ short cape ^^ the press in which tlie semi-cope 
was kept. ^^ jollity ^^ a sober grey '^^ neatly ^" re- 
marks, declarations ^* pompously " sounding, 
proclaiming ^^ the increase ^^ at any cost ^- ex- 
change ^^ French coins, ecus ^^ employed ^^ knew 
^•^ borrowing ^' saj' ^ don't know 



But looked holwe ^ and ther-to ^ sobrely. 

Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy,^ 290 

For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, 

Ne was so worldly for to have office ; 

For hym was levere ■* have at his beddes heed 

Tvifenty bookes clad in blak or reed 

Of Aristotle and his philosophic 295 

Than robes riche, or fithele,^ or gay sautrie.^ 

But al be that he was a philosophre, 

Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; 

But al that he myghte of his freendes hente 

On bookes and his lernynge he it spente, 300 

And bisily gan for the soules preye 

Of hem that gaf hym wher-with to scoleye.^ 

Of studie took he moost cure '' and moost 

heede ; 
Noght o word spak he moore than was neede, 
And that was seyd in forme and reverence. 
And short and quyk and ful of hy sentence.* 
Sownynge in * moral vertu was his speche, 
And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. 

A Sergeant of the Lawe, war ^° and wys, 
That often hadde been at the parvys," 310 
Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
Discreet he was, and of greet reverence — 
He semed swich, his wordes weren so wyse. 
Justice he was ful often in ass5^se,i2 
By patente, and by pleyn ^^ commissioun ; 315 
For his science, and for his heigh renoun, 
Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. 
So greet a purchasour i"* was nov/her noon ; 
Al was fee simple to him in effect, 
His purchasing mighte nat been infect. ^^ 320 
Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,^'' 
And yet he semed bisier than he was. 
In termes hadde he caas ^^ and domes ^* aUe 
That from the tyme of king Wihiam were 

falle. 
Therto he coude endyte and make a thing,^* 
Ther coude no wight pinche at ^° his wryting ; 
And every statut coude he pleyn -^ by rote.^ 
He rood but hoomly in a medlee ^^ cote 
Girt with a ceint ^'^ of silk, with barres smale ; 
Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 330 

A Frankeleyn -^ was in his compaignye ; 
Whit was his berd as is the dayesye ; 

^ hollow ^ besides ^ outer short coat ^ he had 
rather ^ musical instrument '^ go to school ' care 
^ meaning * tending to ^° cautious ^^ the porch of 
St. Paul's, where lawyers met clients ^- court of 
assize ^^fuU ^'* conveyancer ^^invalidated ^^ was not 
^^ cases ^^ decisions '* compose and draw up a docu- 
ment ^^ find a defect in ^^ fully ^^ by heart -^ sober 
grey ^'^ girdle -^ rich landowner 



THE CANTERBURY TALES 



63 



Of his complexioun * he was sangwyn. 

Wei loved he by the morwe ^ a sope ^ in 

wyn; 
To lyven in delit was evere his wone,** 335 
For he was Epicurus owne sone, • 
That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit 
Was verraily felicitee parfit. 
An housholdere, and that a greet, was he ; 
Seint Julian ^ he was in his contree ; 340 

His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon ; "^ 
A bettre envyned '^ man was no-wher noon. 
Withoute bake-mete ^ was nevere his hous, 
Of fissh and fiessh, and that so plentevous 
It snewed ^ in his hous of mete and drynke. 
Of alle deyntees that men coude thynke. 346 
After the sondry sesons of the yeer, 
So chaunged he his mete and his soper. 
Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe,^" 
And many a breem -^ and many a luce ^^ in 
stuwe.^^ 350 

Wo was his cook but-if ^^ his sauce were 
Poynaunt and sharpe, and redy al his geere. 
His table dormant ^* in his halle alway 
Stood redy covered al the longe day. 
At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire ; 355 
Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire. 
An anlaas,^^ and a gipser ^^ al of silk 
Heeng at his girdel whit as morne milk. 
A shirreve hadde he been and a countour ; ^"^ 
Was no-wher such a worthy vavasour.^^ 360 

An haberdassher ^^ and a carpenter, 
A webbe,^" a dyere, and a tapicer,^'- 
And they were clothed alle in o liveree,''^ 
Of a solempne and greet fraternitee. 
Ful fresh and newe hir gere ^^ apyked ^ was ; 
Hir knyves were y-chaped ^^ noght with bras, 
But al with silver ; wroght ful clene and weel 
Hir girdles and hir pouches everydeel. 
Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys. 
To sitten in a yeldhalle ^'^ on a deys.-'^ 370 
Everich, for the wisdom that he can,^^ 
Was shaply for to been an alderman ; 
For catel ^^ hadde they ynogh and rente,^" 
And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente; 



And elles certein were they to blame. 375 
It is ful fair to been y-clept ^ ma dame, 
And goon to vigilyes ^ al bifore, 
And have a mantel roialliche y-bore. 

A Cook they hadde with hem,^ for the 

nones * 
To boille chiknes with the mary-b6nes 380 
And poudre-marchant tart '" and galingale.^ 
Wel coude he knowe a draughte of London 

ale. 
He coude roste, and sethe,'' and broille, and 

frye, 
Maken mortreux,^ and wel bake a pye. 
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 385 
That on his shine ^ a mormal ^° hadde he. 
For blankmanger,!^ that made he v^dth the 

beste. 
A Shipman was ther, wonynge ^^ fer by 

weste ; 
For aught I woot ^^ he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood upon a rouncy " as he couthe,i^ 390 
In a gowne of faldyng ^® to the knee. 
A daggere hangynge on a laas " hadde he 
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al 

broun. 
And certeinly he was a good felawe ; ^^ 395 
Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he i- 

drawe 
Fro Burdeuxward, whil that the chapman ^^ 

sleep. 
Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 2" 
If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond, 
By water he sente hem hoom to every 

lond.^^ 400 

But of his craft to rekene wel his t3^des, 
His stremes ^^ and his daungers hym bisides, 
His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage,^^ 
Ther nas noon swich from HuUe to Cartage. 
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake ; ^^ 405 
With many a tempest hadde his berd been 

shake ; 
He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were, 
From Gootlond ^^ to the Cape of Fynystere, 



^ temperament ^ in the morning ^ sop * custom 
^ patron saint of hospitality ^ always of the same 
quality ^ provided with wines ^ pasties ® snowed 
^^ coop ^^ a kind of fish ^- pond ^^ unless " a per- 
manent table ^^ knife ^® pouch ^^ treasurer ^^ land- 
holder ^^ keeper of a shop for hats or furnishings 
^^ weaver ^^ upholsterer ^^ one uniform ^ apparel 
^ trimmed ^^ sheathed ^^ guild-hall ^^ dais ^* knows 
^® property ^° income 



^ called ^ meetings on the eve of saints' days 
^ them ^ of the right sort, very skilful ^ a tart 
flavouring powder ® a root for flavouring "^ boil 
^ chowders ^ shin ^'^ sore " minced capon with 
sugar, cream, and flour ^ dwelling ^^ know ^^ hack- 
ney ^^ as well as he could ^® cheap cloth ^' lace, 
cord ^* goodfeIlow = rascal ^^ merchant ^'^ heed 
^^ threw them into the sea ^^ currents ^^ steersman- 
ship 2^ skilful in his plans ^^ Denmark 



64 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 



And every cryke ^ in Britaigne and in 

Spayne. 
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410 

With us ther was a Doctour of Phisyk, 
In al this world ne was ther noon him lyk 
To speke of - phisik and of surgerye ; 
For he was grounded in astronomye. 
He kepte his pacient a ful greet del 415 

In houres, by his magik naturel. 
Wei coude he fortunen the ascendent 
Of his images for his pacient.^ 
He knew the cause of everich maladye, 
Were it of hoot or cold, or moiste, or drye, 
And where engendred, and of what humour ; ^ 
He was a verrey,^ pariit practisour. 
The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the rote,® 
Anon he yaf the seke man his bote.'' 
Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries, 425 

To sende him drogges and his letuaries,* 
For ech of hem made other for to winne ; 
Hir frendschipe nas nat newe to biginne. 
Wei knew he the olde Esculapius,^ 
And Deiscorides, and eek Rufus ; 430 

Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galien ; 
Serapion, Razis, and Avicen ; 
Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn; 
Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 
Of his diete mesurable was he, 435 

For it was of no superfluitee. 
But of greet norissing and digestible. 
His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
In sangwin ^° and in pers " he clad was al, 
Lyned with taffata ^^ and with sendal ; ^'' 440 
And yet he was but esy ^^ of dispence ; " 
He kepte that he wan in pestilence.^^ 
For gold in phisik is a cordial,^® 
Therfor he lovede gold in special. 

A Good-wif was ther of biside Bathe, 445 
But she was som-del deef and that was 

scathe." 
Of clooth-makyng she hadde swich an haunt ^® 
She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
In al the parisshe, wif ne was ther noon 
That to the ofirynge bifore hire sholde goon ; 

^ creek, inlet ^ in regard to, if one is speaking of 
^ For II. 415-18, on the use of astrology in treating 
patients, see the Notes. ^ For the humours as 
related to diseases, see the Notes. ^ true '' root, 
cause ^ remedy ^ medicinal syrups ^ The men 
named in II. 429-34 were famous writers on medi- 
cine, ancient and modern. ■"* red ^^ blue ^~ light silk 
^^ moderate ^'' expenditure ^^ ihe plague ^® remedy 
for heart-disease ^' harm ^^ skill 



And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she 
That she was out of alle charitee. 452 

Hir coverchiefs ful fyne weren of ground ; 
I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound. 
That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed. 455 
Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, 
Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moyste ^ 

and newe. 
Boold was hir face and fair and reed of hewe. 
She was a worthy womman al hir lyve ; 
Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve, 
Withouten oother compaignye in j^outhe, 461 
But ther-of nedeth nat to speke as nowtiie.^ 
And thries hadde she been at Jerusalem ; 
She hadde passed many a straunge strem ; 
At Rome she hadde been and at Boloigne, 
In Galice at Seint Jame, and at Coloigne ;466 
She coude ^ muche of wandrynge by the 

weye: 
Gat-tothed ^ was she, soothly for to seye. 
Upon an amblere esily she sat, 
Y-wympled ^ wel, and on her heed an hat 470 
As brood as is a bokeler or a targe ; ^ 
A foot-mantel '' aboute hir hipes large, 
And on hire feet a paire of spores sharpe. 
In felaweshipe Avel coude she laughe and 

carpe ; 474 

Of remedies of love she knew per chaunce,^ 
For she Coude of that art the olde daunce.^ 

A good man was ther of religioun. 
And was a povre Persoun of a toun ; 
But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk ; 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 480 

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. 
Hise parisshens devoutly wolde he teche ; 
Benygne he was and wonder diligent, 
And in adversitee ful pacient ; 
And swich he was y-preved ^° ofte sithes.^^ 485 
Ful looth were hym to cursen ^- for hise tithes, 
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, 
Unto his povre parisshens aboute, 
Of his olTryng and eek of his substaunce. 
He coude in litel thyng have suthsaunce. 490 
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder, 
But he ne lafte " nat for reyn ne thonder 
In siknesse nor in meschief to visite 
The ferreste " in his parisshe, muche and 

lite,!^ 

^ soft ^ at present ' knew * teeth set wide apart, 
a sign that one will travel. ''' with a wimple about 
her face ® shield ^ riding-skirt ^ doubtless ^ This 
is a slang phrase. ^^ proved ^^ times ^'~ excommuni- 
cate ^^ neglected ^^ farthest ^^ rich and poor 



THE CANTERBURY TALES 



65 



Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf. 495 
This noble ensample to his sheepe he gaf, 
That firste he wroghte and afterward he 

taughte. 
Out of the gospel he tho ^ wordes caughte, 
And this figure he added eek ^ therto, 
That if gold ruste, what shal iren doo ? 500 
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, 
No wonder is a lewed ^ man to ruste ; 
And shame it is, if a prest take keep,^ 
A [filthy] shepherde and a clene sheep. 
Wei oghte a preest ensample for to yeve 505 
By his clennesse, how that his sheepe sholde 

lyve. 
He sette nat his benefice to hyre 
And leet his sheep encombred in the myre, 
And ran to London unto Seint Poules 
To seken hym a chaimterie for soules, 510 
Or with a bretherhed to been withholde ; ^ 
But dwelte at hoom and kepte wel his folde, 
So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie ; 
He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenarie. 
And though he hooly were and vertuous, 515 
He was to synful man nat despitous,^ 
Ne of his speche daungerous '' ne digne,* 
But in his techyng descreet and benygne ; 
To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse, 
By good ensample, this was his bisynesse. 
But it were any persone obstinat, 521 

What so he were, of heigh or lowe estat, 
Hym wolde he snybben ^ sharply for the 

nonys.^° 
A bettre preest I trowe that no-wher noon ys ; 
He waited after no pompe and reverence, 525 
Ne maked him a spiced conscience. 
But Cristes loore, and his apostles twelve. 
He taughte, but first he folwed it hj^m-selve. 
With him ther was a Plowman, was ^^ his 

brother, 
That hadde y-lad ^^ of dong ful many a 

fother,^^ 530 

A trewe swmkere ^'' and a good was he, 
Livinge in pees and parfit ^^ charitee. 
God loved he best with al his hole herte 
At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte,^'' 
And thanne his neighebour right as him- 

selve. 535 

He wolde thresshe, and ther-to dyke and 

delve, 

^ those ^ also ' ignorant ^ heed ^ maintained 
^ pitiless ^ overbearing ^ haughty ^ snub, rebuke 
^^ for the nonys means very, extremely ^^ who was 
^- carried ^^ load ^^ labourer ^^ perfect ^® whether he 
was happy or unhappy 



For Cristes sake, for every povre wight, 
Withouten hyre, if it lay in his might. 
His tythes payed he ful faire and wel, 
Bothe of his propre ^ swink ^ and his catel.^ 
In a tabard "* he rood upon a mere. 541 

Ther was also a Reve ^ and a Millere, 
A Somnour "^ and a Pardoner also, 
A Maunciple," and m3^-self ; ther were namo. 

The Millere was a stout carl for the nones,* 
Ful byg he was of brawn and eek of bones ; 
That proved wel, for over-al ^ ther he cam. 
At wrastlynge he wolde have alwey the ram.^'^ 
He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke 

knarre,^^ 
Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of 

harre ^^ 
Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed. 551 
His berd, as any sowe or fox, was reed. 
And therto brood, as though it were a spade. 
Upon the cop ^^ right of his nose he hade 
A werte, and theron stood a tuft of herys,555 
Reed as the bristles of a sowes erys ; ^'' 
His nosethirles ^^ blake were and wyde. 
A swerd and a bokeler bar he by his syde. 
His mouth as wyde was as a greet forneys ; 
He was a janglere ^"^ and a goliardeys,^'' 560 
And that was moost of synne and harlotries. 
Wel coude he stelen corn and toUen thries. 
And yet he hadde a thombe of gold,^^ pardee ! 
A whit cote and a blew hood wered he ; 
A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and sowne. 
And therwithal he broghte us out of towne. 

A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple,^^ 
Of which achatours -° mighte take exemple 
For to be wyse in bying of vitaille. 569 

For whether that he payde, or took by taille,-^ 
Algate he wayted ^'^ so in his achat ^^ 
That he was ay biforn ^■^ and in good stat. 
Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace. 
That swich a lewed -^ mannes wit shal pace ^® 
The wisdom of an heep of lerned men? 575 
Of maistres hadde he mo -^ than thryes ten, 
That were of lawe expert and curious ; 
Of which ther were a doseyn in that hous, 
Worthy to been stiwardes of rente and lond 
Of any lord that is in Engelond, 580 

^ own ^ labour ^ property "* short sleeveless jacket 
^ foreman of the laborers on a manor ^ bailiff of 
an ecclesiastical court ^ steward of a college or inn 
of court ^ for the nones means very, extremely 
^ everywhere ^^ the prize ^^ knot ^^ heave off its 
hinges ^^ end ^^ ears ^* nostrils ^^ loud talker 
^' jester ^^ As all honest millers have. ^^ inn of court 
-" buyers ^^ tally, i.e. on credit "^ always he watched 
^^ purchase ^'^ ahead "^ ignorant "^ surpass ^" more 



66 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 



To make him live by his propre good, 

In honour dettelees, but he were wood/ 

Or hve as scarsly ^ as him list desire ; 

And able for to helpen al a shire 585 

In any cas that mighte falle or happe ; 

And yit this maunciple sette hir aller cappe.^ 

The Reeve was a sclendre colerik "* man. 
His berd was shave as ny as ever he can ; 
His heer was by his eres round y-shorn ; 
His top was dokked ^ lyk a preest biforn. 
Ful longe Avere his legges, and ful lene, 591 
Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. 
Wei coude he kepe a gerner ^ and a binne ; 
Ther was noon auditour coude on him winne. 
Wei wiste he, by the droghte, and by the reyn, 
The yeldyng of his seed, and of his greyn. 596 
His lordes sheep, his neet,'' his dayerye. 
His swyn, his hors, his stoor,^ and his pultrye, 
Was hooly in this reves governing ; 
And by his covenaunt yaf the rekening ^ 600 
Sin ^° that his lord was twenty yeer of age ; 
Ther coude no man bringe him in arrerage.^^ 
Ther nas baillif, ne herde,^^ ne other hyne,^^ 
That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne ; " 
They were adrad of him, as of the deeth. 605 
His woning ^^ was ful fair up-on an heath ; 
With grene trees shadwed was his place ; 
He coude bettre than his lord purchace. 
Ful riche he was astored prively ; 
His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 610 
To yeA^e and lene him of his owne good. 
And have a thank, and yet a cote, and hood.^'' 
In youthe he lerned hadde a good mister ; ^•^ 
He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 
This reve sat up-on a ful good stot,^^ 615 

That was al pomely " grey, and highte Scot. 
A long surcote of pers -° up-on he hade, 
And by his syde he bar a rusty blade. 
Of Northfolk was this reve of which I telle, 
Bisyde a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 620 
Tukked -^ he was, as is a frere, aboute. 
And evere he rood the hindreste of our route. 

A Somnoiu: was ther with us in that place. 
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face. 
For sawcellem ^^ he was, with eyen narwe, 
******* 

^ crazy ^ economically ^ cheated them all (slaitg) 
^ irascible ^ cut short ^ granary '' cattle ® stock 
of tools, etc. ^ rendered account ^° since " find 
him in arrears ^^ herdsman ^^ servant ^* whose 
craft and deceit he did not know ^* dwelling 
^^ lend his lord's own property to him and receive 
thanks and gifts ^' trade ^^ cob ^' dappled ^° blue 
^^ his coat was tucked up with a girdle ^^ pimpled 



With scalled ^ browes blake, and piled ^ 

berd; 
Of his visage children were aferd. 
Ther nas quik-silver, litarge,^ ne brimstoon, 
Boras,^ ceruce,^ ne oille of tartre noon, 630 
Ne oynement that vrolde dense and byte, 
That him mighte helpen of his whelkes ^ 

whyte, 
Ne of the knobbes sittinge on his chekes. 
Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes, 
And for to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood. 
Thanne wolde he speke and crye, as he were 

wood.® 
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the 

wyn, 
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
A fewe termes hadde he, two or thre. 
That he had lerned out of some decree ; 640 
No wonder is, he herde it al the day ; 
And eek ye knowen wel, how that a Jay 
Can clepen 'Watte,' '' as well as can the pope. 
But who-so coude in other thing him grope,^ 
Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophye ; 
Ay "Quesiio quid iuris" ^ wolde he crye. 646 
He was a gen til harlot ^° and a kynde ; 
A bettre felawe ^^ sholde men noght fynde ; 
He wolde suffre for a quart of WAm 
A good felawe to have his [wikked sin] 650 
A twelf-month, and excuse him atte fulle ; 
And prively a finch eek coude he puUe.^^ 
And if he fond owher ^^ a good felawe, 
He wolde techen him to have non awe. 
In swich cas, of the erchedeknes curs,^' 655 
But-if ^^ a mannes soule were in his purs ; ^® 
For in his purs he sholde y-punisshed be. 
"Purs is the erchedeknes helle," seyde he. 
But wel I woot he lyed right in dede ; 659 
Of cursing oghte ech gulty man him drede ^^ — ■ 
For curs wol slee, right as assoilling ^^ saveth — 
And also war him of a significavit}^ 
In daunger -" hadde he at his owne gyse ^^ 
The yonge girles - of the diocyse, 
And knew hir counseil,-^ and was al hir reed.-^ 
A gerland hadde he set up-on his heed, 666 

^ scurfy ^ scraggy ^ a lead ointment ^ borax 
^ bumps * mad " call "Walter," as a parrot calls 
"Poll" ^ test ^ "The question is what is the 
law" ^^ rascal ^^ good fellow icvs slang for a "dis- 
reputable person." ^" slang for "rob a green lioni." 
^^ anywhere ^■' excommunication ^^ unless ^'' purse 
'^ be afraid ^* absolving ^^ writ for arresting an 
excommunicated person "^ under his inllucnce 
^^ way '^'^ young people of either sex -' secrets 
^'' adviser 



THE CANTERBURY TALES 



67 



As greet as it were for an ale-stake ; ^ 
A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake. 
With him ther rood a gentU Pardoner 
Of Rouncivale, his frend and his compeer,67o 
That streight was comen fro the court of 

Rome. 
Ful loude he song, 'Com hider, love, to me.' 
This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun,^ 
Was nevere trompe ^ of half so greet a soun. 
This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex, 
But smothe it heng, as doth a strike of flex ; ^ 
By ounces ^ henge his lokl-ies that he hadde, 
And ther-with he his shuldres overspradde ; 
But thinne it lay, by colpons ^ oon and oon ; 
But hood, for jolitee,'' ne wered he noon, 680 
For it was trussed up in his walet. 
Him thoughte ^ he rood al of the newe jet ; ^ 
Dischevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare. 
Swiche glaringe eyen hadde he as an hare. 
A vernicle ^° hadde he sowed on his cappe. 685 
His walet lay biforn him in his lappe, 
Bret-ful ^^ of pardoun come from Rome al 

hoot. 
A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot. 
No berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have, 
Afe smothe it was as it were late y-shave ; 690 

But of his craft, fro Berwik unto Ware,^^ 
Ne was ther swich another pardoner ; 
For in his male ^^ he hadde a pUwe-beer,^* 
Which that, he seyde, was our lady veyl ; ^^ 
He seyde, he hadde a gobet ^^ of the seyl ^^ 
That Seynt Peter hadde, whan that he wente 
Up-on the see, til lesu Crist him hente ; ^^ 
He hadde a croys ^^ of latoun,^" ful of stones, 
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 700 

But with thise relikes, whan that he fond 
A povre person dwelling up-on lond,^^ 
Up-on a day he gat him more moneye 
Than that the person gat in monthes tweye. 
And thus with feyned flaterye and japes,^^ 705 
He made the person and the peple his apes.^^ 
But trewely to tellen, atte laste, 
He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste. 

^ a pole projecting from the wall of an inn 
and usually ' bearing a garland ^ accompani- 
ment ^ trumpet * hank of flax ^ small portions 
^ handfuls ^ for sport ^ it seemed to him ^ new 
fashion ^° a duplicate of the handkerchief of St. 
Veronica, on which the face of Jesus was im- 
printed. ^^ brimful ^ from one end of England to 
the other ^^ bag ^"^ pillow-case ^^ Our Lady's veil 
^^ bit ^^ sail ^^ seized ^^ cross ^° brass -^ in the coun- 
trv '^^ tricks ^^ fools 



Wei coude he rede a lessoun or a storie, 
But alderbest ^ he song an offertorie ; 710 

For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe, 
He moste preche, and wel affyle ^ his tonge, 
To winne silver, as he ful wel coude ; 
Therfore he song so meriely and loude. 

Now have I toold you shortly, in a clause, 
Thestaat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the 
cause 716 

Why that assembled was this compaignye 
In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrye. 
That highte ^ the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 
But now is t>Tae to you for to telle 720 

How that we baren us that ilke nyght, 
Whan we were m that hostelrie alyght ; 
And after wol I telle of our viage ^ 
And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. 

But first, I pray yow of youre curteisye, 
That ye narette it nat ^ my vileynye,^ 726 
Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere 
To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere, 
Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely ; ^ 
For this ye knowen al-so wel as I, 730 

Whoso shal telle a tale after a man, 
He moote reherce, as ny as evere he can, 
Everich a v/ord, if it be in his charge, 
Al ^ speke he never so rudeliche and large,^ 
Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe 735 
Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe ; 
He may nat spare, althogh he were his 

brother. 
He moot as wel seye o word as another. 
Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ, 
And wel ye woot no vileynye ^° is it. 740 

Eek Plato seith, whoso that can hym rede, 
"The wordes moote be cosyn ^^ to the dede." 

Also I prey 3'ow to foryeve it me 
Al ** have I nat set folk in hir degree 
Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde ; 
My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 746 

Greet chiere made oure hoste us everichon,^^ 
And to the soper sette he us anon, 
And served us with vitaille at the beste ; 
Strong was the wyn, and wel to dr)aike us 
leste.^^ 750 

A semely man oure Hooste was with-alie 
For to han been a marshal in an halle. 
A large man he was, with eyen stepe,-^ 
A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe ; ^^ 

^ best of all ^ polish, smooth ^ was called * jour- 
ney ^ do not ascribe it to ^ lack of breeding 
^ accuratel}^ ^ although ^ coarselj' ^° vulgarity 
^^ cousin '^ every one ^' it pleased us ^* big 
^^ Cheapside 



68 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 



Boold of his speche, and wys and wel y-taught, 
And of manhod hym lakkede right naught. 
Eek therto ^ he was right a myrie man, 757 
And after soper pleyen he bigan, 
And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges, 
Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges ; 
And seyde thus: "Now, lordynges, trewely. 
Ye been to me right welcome, hertely ; 762 
For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, 
I ne saugh this yeer so myrie a compaignye 
At ones in this herberwe ^ as is now ; 765 

Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how.'^ 
And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght, 
To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght. 

"Ye goon to Canterbury; God yow speede. 
The blisful martir quite yow youre meede ! ■* 
And, wel I woot,^ as ye goon by the weye, 
Ye shapen yow to talen ® and to pleye ; 772 
For trewely comfort ne myrthe is noon 
To ride by the weye doumb as a stoon ; 
And therfore wol I maken yow disport, 775 
As I seyde erst,'^ and doon yow som comfort. 
And if you liketh alle, by oon assent, 
Now for to stonden at my juggement, 
And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 
To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, 780 
Now by my fader soule that is deed. 
But * ye be m^yrie, I wol yeve yow myn heed ! 
Hoold up youre hond withouten moore 

speche." 
Dure conseil was nat longe for to seche; 
Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it 

wys, . 785 

And graunted hym withouten moore avys,' 
And bad him seye his verdit, as hym leste.^° 
"Lordynges," ^^ quod he, "now herkneth 

for the beste. 
But taak it nought, I prey yow, m desdeyn ; 
This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, 
That ech of j^ow, to shorte with your weye, 
In this viage shal telle tales tweye 792 

To Caunterburyward, • — • I mean it so, — 
And homward he shal tellen othere two, 
Of aventures that whilom ^^ han bifaUe. 795 
And which of yow that bereth hym beste of 

alle, 
That is to seyn, that teUeth in this caas 
Tales of best sentence ^^ and moost solaas, 
Shal have a soper at oure aller cost," 
Heere in this place, sittynge by this post, 800 

^ besides ^ inn ^ if I knew how * give you your 
reward '' know '' tell tales ^ before ^ unless ^ con- 
sideration ^° pleased him ^^ gentlemen ^ formerly 
^ meaning ^'^ cost of us all 



Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury. 
And, for to make yow the moore mury,^ 
I wol myselven gladly with yow ryde 
Right at myn owne cost, and be youre gyde. 
And whoso wole my juggemicnt withseye ^ 805 
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 
And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so, 
Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo, 
And I wol erly shape me ^ therfore." 

This thyng was graunted, and oure othes 

swore 810 

With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also 
That he would vouche-sauf for to do so. 
And that he wolde been oure governour, 
And of our tales juge and reportour, 
And sette a soper at a certeyn pris, 815 

And we wol reuled been at his devys 
In heigh and lowe ; and thus by oon assent 
We been acorded to his juggement. 
And therupon the wyn was fet ^ anon ; 
We dronken and to reste wente echon 820 
Withouten any lenger taryynge. 

Amorwe, whan that day bigan to sprynge, 
Up roos oure Hoost and was oure aller cok,^ 
And gadrede us togidre alle in a flok, 
And forth we riden, a litel moore than paas,^ 
Unto the Wateryng of Seint Thomas; 826 
And there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste, 
And seyde, "Lordynges, herkneth, if yov/ 

leste ! 
Ye woot youre forward,^ and I it yow re- 

corde. 
If even-song and morwe-song accorde, S30 
Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. 
As evere mote I drynke wyn or ale, 
Whoso be rebel to my juggement 
Shal paye for aU that by the wey is spent ! 
Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne.* 
He which that hath the shorteste shal bi- 

gynne. 836 

Sire Knyght," quod he, "my mayster and my 

lord, 
Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord. 
Cometh neer," ^ quod he, " my lady Prioresse, 
And ye, sire Clerk, lat be your shamefast- 

nesse, S40 

Ne studieth noght ; ley hond to, every man." 

Anon to drawen every wight bigan. 
And, shortly for to tellen, as it was, 
Were it by aventure, or sort,^° or cas,^^ 

^ merry ^ gainsay ^ prepare myself ■* fetched 
^ cock — waked lis all. ^ a little faster than a 
walk ^ agreement ** farther depart ' come nearer 
^° fate " chance 



THE COMPLEINT OF CHAUCER TO HIS EMPTY PURSE 



69 



The sothe is this, the cut fil to the knyght, 
Of which ful bhthe and glad was every 

wyght : ■ 846 

And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun, 
By forward ^ and by composicioun,^ 
As ye han herd ; what nedeth wordes mo ? 
And whan this goode man saugh that it was 

so, 850 

As he that wys was and obedient 
To kepe his forward ^ by his free assent. 
He seyde, " Syn ^ I shal bigynne the game. 
What, welcome be the cut a '' Goddes name ! 
Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye." 
And with that word, we ryden forth oure 

weye ; 
And he bigan with right a myrie cheere 857 
His tale anon, and seyde in this manere. 



Tempest ^ thee noght al croked to redresse, 
In trust of hir ^ that turneth as a bal ; 
Gret reste stant ^ in litel besinesse. 10 

And eek be war ^ to sporne ^ ageyn an al ; ® 
Strive noght, as doth the crokke "^ with the 

wal. 
Daunte thy-self , that dauntest otheres dede ; 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 

That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse,^ 15 
The wrastling for this worlde axeth a fal. 
Her nis non hom, her nis but wildernesse : 
Forth, pilgrim, forth ! Forth, beste,^ out of 

thy stal ! 
Know thy contree ; lok up, thank God of al ; 
Hold the hye-wey,i° and lat thy gost " thee 

lede ! 20 

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 



A ROUNDEL 

From THE PARLEMENT OF FOULES 

"Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe, 
That hast this ivintres weders ^ over-shake,^ 
And driven awey the longe nightes Make ! " 

Seynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,'' 
Thus singen smale foules ^ for thy sake : 5 

"Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe, 
That hast this wintres weders over-shake." 

Wei han ^ they cause for to gladen ofte, 

Sith ^ ech of hem recovered hath his make ; ^° 

Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake : 

"Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne softe. 

That hast this wintres weders over-shake, 

And driven awey the longe nightes blake!" 



BALADE DE BON CONSEYL 

Fie fro the prees," and dweUe with sothfast- 

nesse,^ 
Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal ; 
For hord hath hate, and clymbing tikelnesse,^^ 
Frees ^^ hath envye, and wele blent overal ; " 
Savour no more than thee bihove shal ; s 

Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede ; ^^ 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.^'^ 



Envoy 

Therfore, thou Vache,^^ leve thyn old wrecch- 

ednesse ; 
Unto the worlde leve ^^ now to be thral ; 
Crye Him mercy that ^* of His hy goodnesse 
Made thee of noght, and in especial 25 

Draw unto Him, and pray in general 
For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede ; ^^ 
And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. 28 

Explicit Le bon counseill de G. Chaucer 

THE COMPLEINT OF CHAUCER TO 
HIS EMPTY PURSE 

To you, my purse, and to non other wight ^^ 

Compleyne I, for ye be my lady dere ! 

I am so sory, now that ye be light ; 

For certes, but ^"^ ye make me hevy chere,^^ 

Me were as leef be leyd up-on my bere ; ^® 5 

For whiche un-to your mercy thus I crye : 

Beth^° hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye ! 

Now voucheth sauf this day, or ^i hit be night, 
That I of you the blisful soun may here, 
Or see your colour lyk the sonne bright, 10 
That of yelownesse hadde never pere. 
Ye be my lyf , ye be myn hertes stere,^^ 

i.e. Fortune ^ stands, resides ^ cau- 
® awl ^ crock, earthen pot ^ willing 



^ disturb ^ i.e. Fortune ^ stands, resides ^ cau- 
tious ^ kick ® awl ^ crock, earthen pot ^ willing 
obedience ^ beast ^^ highway ^^ spirit ^- Sir Philip 



tious ^ kick ® awl ^ crock, earthen pot ^ willing 

^ agreement ^ compact ^ since ^ in ^ storms obedience ^ beast ^^ highway ^^ spirit ^- Sir Phihp 

^ overturned '^ above ^ little birds ' have ^° mate la Vache ^^ cease ^* thank him who ^^ reward 

"the crowd ^^ truth ^^ insecurity ^* prosperity i^rrpnf-iirp i^ „n]fi(;c; is rheer i^ hier ^'^he. ^i ere 

blinds everywhere ^^ advise ^^ doubt 

ATT 



la V acne "" cease ' 
^® creature ^^ unless 
^ guide 



;nanK mm wno *" rewaru 
' cheer ^^ bier ^^ be ^^ ere 



AE 



70 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 



Quene of comfort and of good companye, 
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles rnot I dye ! 

Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, 15 
And saveour, as doun in this worlde here, 
Out of this toune help me through your might. 
Sin that ye wole nat ben my tresorere ; 
For I am shave as nye ^ as any frere.^ 
But yit I pray un-to 5i'our curtesye : 20 

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye ! 

Lenvoy de Chaucer 

O conquerour of Brutes Albioun ! 
Which that by lyne and free eleccioun 
Ben ^ verray king, this song to you I sende ; 
And ye, that mowen ^ al myn harm amende. 
Have mynde up-on my supplicacioun ! 26 

A TREATISE ON THE ASTROLABE^ 

PROLOGUS 

Litel Lowis ^ my sone, I have perceived wel 
by certeyne evidences thyn abilite to lerne 
sciencez touchinge noumbres and propor- 
ciouns ; and as wel considere I thy bisy ^ 
preyere ^ in special to lerne the Tretis of the 
Astrolabie. Than,^ for as mechel ^" as a phil- 
osofre seith, "he wrappeth him in his frend, that 
condescendeth to the rightful preyers of his 
frend," therfor have I yeven" thee a suflisaunt 
Astrolabie as for oure orizonte,^^ compowned ^^ 
after the latitude of Oxenford ; upon which, 
by mediacion ^^ of this litel tretis, I purpose to 
teche thee a certein nombre of conclusions ^^ 
apertening ^^ to the same instrument. I seye 
a certein of conclusiouns, for three causes. 
The furste cause is this : truste wel that alle 
the conclusiouns that han ^^ ben founde, or 
elles ^^ possibly mighten be founde in so noble 
an instrument as an Astrolabie, ben * un- 
knowe perfitly to any mortal man in this 
regioun, as I suppose. Another cause is this : 
that sothly,^^ in any tretis of the Astrolabie 
that I have seyn,^" there ben ^ some conclu- 
sions that wole ^^ nat in alle thinges performen 
hir "^ bihestes ; -'^ and some of hem ben ^ to -'^ 

^ shaven as close ^ friar ^ are * may ^ astro- 
nomical instrument; consult the dictionary ^ Lewis 
^ eager ^ prayer, request ^ then ^^ much ^^ given 
'^ horizon ^^ composed '* means ^^ problems and 
their solutions ^*' pertaining ^' have '^^ else ^^ truly 
^° .seen -^ will ^^ Ihcir '-'* promises -' too 



harde to thy tendre age of ten yeer to con- 
seyve.^ This tretis, divided in fyve parties ^ 
wole ^ I shewe thee under ful lighte * rewles ^ 
and naked wordes in English; for Latin ne 
canstow ^ yit but smal, my lyte '' sone. But 
natheles,* suffyse to thee thise trewe con- 
clusiouns in English, as wel as suffyseth to 
thise noble clerkes Grekes thise same conclu- 
siouns in Greek, and to Arabiens in Arabik, 
and to Jewes in Ebrew, and to the Latin folk 
in Latin ; whiche Latin folk han ' hem ^° furst 
out of othre diverse langages, and writen in 
hir 11 owne tonge, that is to sein,^^ in Latin. 
And God wot,^^ that in alle thise langages, 
and in many mo,^^ han ^ thise conclusiouns 
ben ^^ sufiisantly lerned and taught, and yit 
by diverse rewles,^ right as diverse pathes 
leden diverse folk the righte wey to Rome. 
Now wol I prey meekly every discret persone 
that redeth or hereth this litel tretis, to have 
my rewde ^^ endyting i'' for excused, and my 
superfluite of wordes, for two causes. The 
firste cause is, for-that ^^ curious " endyting ^'' 
and hard sentence "° is ful hevy ^^ atones ^^ 
for swich ^ a child to lerne. And the seconde 
cause is this, that sothly -'^ mesemeth ^^ betre 
to wryten unto a child twyes ^^ a good sentence, 
than he forgete it ones.^' And, Lowis, yif -^ 
so be that I shewe thee in my lighte ^^ English 
as trewe conclusiomis touching this matere, 
and naught ^° only as trewe but as many and 
as subtil conclusiouns as ben ^^ shewed in 
Latin in any commune tretis of the Astrolabie, 
con me the more thank ; ^- and preye God save 
the king, that is lord of this langage, and alle 
that him feyth bereth ^^ and obeyeth, everech ^'* 
in his degree, the more ^^ and the lasse.^* But 
considere wel, that I ne usurpe nat to have 
founde this work of my labour or of myn 
engin.^^. I nam ^^ but a lewd ^^ compilatour ^^ 
of the labour of olde Astrologiens, and have hit 
translated in myn English only for thy doc- 
trine ; and with this swerd ^^ shal I sleen ^"^ 
envye. 

^ understand ^ parts ^ will * easy ^ rules ^ know- 
est thou " little ^ nevertheless ' have ^" them 
^^ their ^"^ say ^^ knows ^* more ^^ been ^^ rude 
1' composition ^^ because ^^ elaborate ^" meaning, 
sense ~^ difficult -- at once ^^ such ^* trul}'' '^^ it 
seems to me "'' twice ^' once "^ if "^ easy ^^ not 
^^ are ^'^ con thank means thank, be grateful ^ bear 
^■' every one ^" greater ^'^ less ^' ingenuity ** am not 
^'^ ignorant ''" compiler '" sword '- slay 



HIGDEN'S POLYCHRONICON 



71 



JOHN DE TREVISA (13 26-141 2) 

HIGDEN'S POLYCHRONICON 

BOOK I. CHAPTER LIX 



This apa>Tynge ^ of the burthe of the tunge 
is bycause of tweie thinges ; oon is for children 
in scole ayenst the usage and manere of alle 
othere naciouns beeth compelled for to leve ^ 
hire ^ owne langage, and for to construe hir ^ 
lessouns and here ^ thynges in Frensche, and 
so they haveth * seth ^ the Normans come ^ 
first in-to Engelond. Also gentil-men children 
beeth i-taught to speke Frensche from the 
tyme that they beeth i-rokked in here cradel, 
and kunneth ^ speke and playe with a childes 
broche ; ^ and uplondisshe ^ men wil likne 
hym-self to gentil-men, and fondeth ^" with 
greet besynesse for to speke Frensce, for to be 
i-tolde " of. TrevisaP This manere was 
moche i-used to-for ^^ [the] FirsteDeth " and is 
siththe^^ sumdeP^ i-chaunged; for John 
Cornwaile, a maister of grammer, chaunged 
the lore in gramer scole and construccioun 
of ^® Frensche in-to Englische ; and Richard 
Pencriche lerned the manere ^^ techynge of 
hym and othere men of Pencrich ; so that 
now, the yere of oure Lorde a thowsand thre 
hundred and foure score and fyve, and of the 
secounde kyng Richard after the Conquest 
nyne, in alle the gramere scoles of Engelond, 
children leveth Frensche and construeth and 
lerneth an ^^ Englische, and haveth '^ therby 
avauntage in oon side and disavauntage in 
another side ; here ' avauntage is, that they 
lerneth her ^ gramer in lasse ^^ tyme than 
children were i-woned ^° to doo ; disavauntage 
is that now children of gramer scole conneth ^^ 
na more Frensche than can/^- hir ^ lift ^^ heele, 
and that is harme for hem ^* and "^^ they schuUe 
passe the see and travaiUe in straunge landes 
and in many other places. Also gentil-men 
haveth now moche i-left -^ for to teche here ^ 
children Frensche. 

^ deterioration ^ leave, give up ^ their ^ have 
* since ® came ^ can * brooch (ornament in gen- 
eral) ' country ^^ attempt " accounted ^ What 



This deterioration of the birth of the tongue 
is because of two things : one is because chil- 
dren in school, against the usage and custom of 
all other nations, are compelled to give up 
their own language and to construe their les- 
sons and their exercises in French, and so they 
have since the Normans came first into Eng- 
land. Also gentlemen's children are taught 
to speak French from the time that they are 
rocked in their cradles and can talk and play 
with a baby's brooch ; and countrymen wish 
to be like gentlemen and attempt with great 
effort to speak French, in order to be highly 
regarded. 

Trevisa: This custom was much used be- 
fore the first plague and has since been some- 
what changed; for John Cornwaile, master 
of grammar, changed the teaching in gram- 
mar school and the translation of French 
into English ; and Richard Pencriche learned 
this sort of teaching from him, and other men 
from Pencriche, so that now, the year of 
Our Lord 1385 and of the second King Richard 
after the Conquest nine, in all the grammar 
schools of England, children give up French 
and construe and learn in English, and have 
thereby advantage on one side and disadvan- 
tage on another side ; their advantage is that 
they learn their grammar in less time than 
children were accustomed to do ; the dis- 
advantage is that now children in grammar 
school know no more French than does their 
left heel ; and that is harm for them if they 
shall pass the sea and travel in strange lands 
and in many other places. Also gentlemen 
have now in general ceased to teach their chil- 
dren French. 



follows is Trevisa' s addition. ^^ before ^'* the First 
Plague, 1348-1349 ^* somewhat ^'° from ^" kind 
of ^^ in ^^ less ^^ accustomed ^^ know ^ knows 
23 left 24 them ^Sif 26 ceased 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE AGES 



THOMAS HOCCLEVE 

(i37o?-i45o?) 

From DE REGIMINE PRINCIPUM 
ON CHAUCER 

O maister deere and fadir reverent, 1961 

Mi maister Chaucer, flour of eloquence, 
Mirour of fructuous entendement,^ 
O universel fadir in science. 
Alias, that thou thyn excellent prudence 
In thi bed mortel mightist noght by- 

quethe ! 
What eUed Deth aUas ! why wold he sle 
the? 

O Deth, thou didest naght harme singuleer - 
In slaughtere of him, but al this land it 
smertith. 1969 

But nathelees yit hast thou no power 
His name sle ; his hy vertu astertith ^ 
Unslayn fro the, whiche ay us lyfly hertyth ^ 
With bookes of his ornat endytyng, 
That is to al this land enlumynyng. 1974 



The steppes of Virgile in poesie 

Thow folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow. 
That combre-world ^ that the, my maistir, 
slow,^ 
Would I slayne were ! Deth was to 

hasty f, 
To rene ^ on the, and reve * the thi lyf . 

Deth hath but smal consideracion 2094 

Unto the vertuous, I have espied. 
No more, as shewith the probacion,^ ■ 
Than to a vicious maister losel ^ tried ; 
Among an heep ^ every man is maistried ^ 
With ^ hire, as wel the porre ^° as is the 

riche ; 
Lerede " and lewde ^- eeke standen al 
yliche.^^ 

She mighte han taryed hir vengeance a while 
Til that some man had egal to the be.^'* 2102 
Nay, lat be that ! sche knew wel that this yle 
May never man forth brynge lyk to the. 
And hir ofiice ^^ nedes do mot ^^ she ; 

God bad hir do so, I truste as for the 

beste ; 
O maister, maister, God thi soule reste ! 



My dere maistir (God his soule quyte !) 2077 
And fadir Chaucer fayn wolde han me 

taght. 
But I was dul, and lerned lite or naght. 

Alias ! my worthi maister honorable, 2080 

This landes verray tresor and richesse ! 
Dethe, by thi deth, hath harme irreparable 
Unto us doon ; hir vengeable duresse ^ 
Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse 
Of rethorik, for unto TuUius 
Was never man so lyk ^ amonges us. 2086 

.\ls() who "was hier ^ in philosophic 2087 

To Aristotle in our tonge but thow? 

' fruitful understanding ^ affecting only one 
3 escapes ^ heartens ^ cruel afiliction " like ^ heir 



The firste fyndere of our faire langage 49 78 
Hath seyde in caas semblable,^^ and othir 
moo,^* 
•So hyly wel, that it is my dotage 

For to expresse or touche any of thoo.^^ 
Alasse ! my fadir fro the worlde is goo. 
My worthi maister Chaucer, hym I mene : 
Be thou advoket ^" for hym, Hevenes 
Quene ! 

As thou wel knowest, O Blissid Virgyne, 4985 
With lovyng hert and hye devocion 

In thyne honour he wroot ful many a lyne ; 
O now thine helpe and thi promocion ! 

^ world-cumberer - slew ^ run * bereave ^ ex- 
perience '^ rascal ^ in a crowd ^ overcome ® by 
^^ poor " learned *^ ignorant ^^ alike ^* had been 
equal to thee ^■' duty ^^ must '^ like cases ^* others 
also ^^ those ^^ advocate 



72 



THE STORY OF THEBES 



73 



To God thi Sone make a mocion 

How he thi servaunt was, Mayden Marie, 
And lat his love floure and fructifie ! 4991 

Al-thogh his lyfe bequeynt,^ the resemblaunce 

Of him hath in me so fressh lyflynesse, 
That, to putte othir men in remembraunce 
Of his persone, I have heere his lyknesse 
Do make,^ to this ende, in sothfastnesse, 
That thei that have of him lest thought 
and mynde, ' 4997 

By this peynture may ageyn him fynde. 

JOHN LYDGATE (i37o?-i45i ?) 

From THE STORY OF THEBES 

HOW FALSLY ETHYOCLES LEYDE A 
BUSSHEMENT3 IN THE WAY TO 

HAVE SLAYN TYDEUS 

At a posterne forth they gan to ryde 

Bj^ a geyn * path, that ley oute a-side, 

Secrely, that no man hem espie, 

Only of ^ tresoun and of felonye. 

They haste hem forth al the longe day, 

Of cruel malys, forto stoppe his way, 

Thorgh a forest, alle of oon assent, 

Ful covartly to leyn a busshement 

Under an hille, at a streite passage, 

To falle on hym at mor avantage,^ mo 

The same way that Tydeus gan drawe 

At thylke ^ mount wher that Spynx was slawe.^ 

He, nothing war in his opynyoun ^ 

Of this compassed 1° conspiracioun, 

But innocent and lich " a gentyl knyght, 

Rood ay forth to ^^ that it drowe ^^ to nyght, 

Sool by hym-silf, with-oute companye, 

Havyng no man to wisse ^* hym or to gye.^^ 

But at the last, lifting up his hede, 
Toward eve, he gan taken hede ; 11 20 

Mid of his waye, right as eny lyne, 
Thoght he saugh, ageyn the mone shyne, 
Sheldes fresshe and plates borned ^"^ bright, 
The which environ " casten a gret lyght ; 
Ymagynyng in his fantasye 
Ther was treson and conspiracye 
Wrought by the kyng, his journe ^^ forto lette.^^ 
And of al that he no-thyng ne settCj^" 

^ quenched ^ had made ^ ambush * convenient 

* purely because of ^ greater advantage ^ the same 

* slain ^ not at all aware in his thought ^° ar- 
ranged, formed ^^ like ^^ till ^^ drew ^'* direct 
^^ guide ^^ burnished ^^ around ^^ journey ^^ hinder 
^^ he cared nothing for all that 



But wel assured in his manly herte, 
List ^ nat onys a-syde to dyverte, 1130 

But kepte his way, his sheld upon his brest. 
And cast his spere manly in the rest, 
And the first platly ^ that he mette 
Thorgh the body proudely he hym smette, 
That he fiUe ded, chief mayster of hem alle ; 
And than at onys they upon hym falle 
On every part, be ^ compas envyroun. 
But Tydeus, thorgh his hegh renoun. 
His blody swerde lete about hymglyde, 
Sleth and kylleth upon every side 1140 

In his ire and his mortal tene ; '' 
That mervaile was he myght so sustene 
Ageyn hem alle, in every half besette ; ^ 
But his swerde was so sharpe whette 
That his foomen founde ful unsoote." 
But he, alias ! was mad light a foote,^ 
Be force grounded,^ in ful gret distresse; 
But of knyghthod and of gret prouesse * 
Up he roos, maugre 1° alle his foon,^^ 
And as they cam, he slogh i" hem oon bfe oon, 
Lik a lyoun rampaunt in his rage, 1151 

And on this hille he fond a narow passage. 
Which that he took of ful high prudence ; 
And liche ^^ a boor, stondyng at his diffence, 
As his foomen proudly hym assaylle, 
Upon the pleyn he made her blode to raylle ^* 
Al enviroun, that the soyl wex rede, 
Now her, now ther, as they fille dede. 
That her lay on, and ther lay two or thre. 
So mercyles, in his cruelte, 11 60 

Thilke day he was upon hem founde ; 
And, attonys '^^ his enemyes to confounde, 
Wher- as he stood, this myghty chanipioun, 
Be-side he saugh, v/ith water turned doun. 
An huge stoon large, rounde, and squar ; 
And sodeynly, er that thei wer war. 
As ^^ it hadde leyn ther for the nonys,^^ 
Upon his foon he rolled it at onys, 
That ten of hem ^* wenten unto wrak. 
And the remnaunt amased drogh " a-bak ; 
For on by on they wente to meschaunce.^" 
And fynaly he broght to outraunce ^^ 1 1 72 
Hem everychoon, Tydeus, as blyve,^^ 
That non but on left -^ of ham ^^ alyve : 
Hym-silf yhurt, and y wounded kene,^* 
Thurgh his barneys bledyng on the grene ; 

^ wished ^ absolutely ^ by ^ pain ^ beset on 
every side ^ unsweet, bitter ^ made to alight on 
foot ^ brought to ground ® prowess ^^ in spite of 
^^ foes ^^ slew ^^ like ^^ flow ^^ at once ^^ as if ^^ for 
the purpose ^* them ^^ drew ^^ defeat ^^ destruction 
^ quickly ^^ remained ^^ sorely 



74 



BALLADS 



The Theban knyghtes in compas rounde 

aboute 
In the vale lay slayne, alle the hoole route/ 
Which pitously ageyn the mone ^ gape ; 
For non of hem, shortly,^ myght eskape, 1180 
But dede ^ echon as thei han deserved, 
Save oon excepte, the which was reserved 
By Tydeus, of intencioun. 
To the kyng to make relacioun 
How his knyghtes han on her journe 

spedde,^ — 
Everich of hem his lyf left for a wedde,^ — 
And at the metyng how they han hem born ; 
To tellen al he sured ^ was and sworn 
To Tydeus, ful lowly on his kne. 



BALLADS 

(Authors and Dates Unknown) 

ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF 
GISBORNE 

1. When shawes ^ bieene sheene,^ and 

shradds ^° full fayre, 
And leeves both large and longe, 
It is merry, walking m the fayre fforrest. 
To heare the small birds songe. 

2. The woodweele^i sang, and wold not 

cease, 
Amongst the leaves a lyne ; ^- 
And it is by two wight ^^ yeomen, 
By deare God, that I meane. 



3. "Me thought they did mee beate and 

binde, 
And tooke my bow mee froe ; 10 

If I bee Robin a-live in this lande, 
I'le be wrocken ^^ on both them towe." 

4. "Sweavens^^ are swift, master," quoth 

John, 
"As the wind that blowes ore a hill ; 
For if itt be never soe lowde this night, 
To-morrow it may be stUl." 

1 crowd - moon ^ to tell it briefly '' died ^ suc- 
ceeded, fared ^ pledge ^ assured * groves '■• beauti- 
ful " coppices ^^ woodlark ^^ of linden ^^ stout 
^^ avenged ^^ dreams 



5. "Buske^ yee, bowne^ yee, my merry 

men all. 
For John shall goe with mee ; 
For I'le goe seeke yond wight yeomen 
In greenwood where they bee." 20 

6. They cast on their gowne of greene, 

A shooting gone are they, 
Until they came to the merry greenwood, 

Where they had gladdest bee ; 
There were they ware of a wight yeoman, 

His body leaned to a tree. 

7. A sword and a dagger he wore by his side, 

Had beene many a mans bane, . 
And he was cladd m his capull-hyde,^ 
Topp, and tayle, and mayne. 30 

8. "Stand you still, master," quoth Litle 

John, 
"Under this trusty tree. 
And I will goe to yond wight yeoman, 
To know his meaning trulye." 

9. "A, John, by me thou setts noe store, 

And that's a ffarley ^ thinge ; 

How ofTt send I my men beffore. 

And tarry my-selfe behinde ? 

10. "It is noe cunning a knave to ken ; 

And a man but heare him speake. 40 
And itt were not for bursting of my bowe, 
John, I wold thy head breake." 

11. But often words they breeden bale ; 

That parted Robin and John. 
John is gone to Barnesdale, 

The gates * he knowes eche one. 

12. And when hee came to Barnesdale, 

Great heavinesse there hee hadd ; 
He ffound two of his fellowes 

Were slaine both in a slade,^ 50 

13. And Scarlett a-ffoote fiyinge was, 

Over stockes and stone, 
For the sheriffe with seven score men 
Fast after him is gone. 

14. " Yett one shoote I'le shoote," sayes Litle 

John, 
"With Crist his might and mayne; 
I'le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast 
To be both glad and ffaine." 

^ get ready " horse-liide ^ strange ^ ways ^ valley 



ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE 



75 



15. John bent up a good veiwe ^ bow, 

And ffetteled ^ him to shoote ; 60 

The bow was made of a tender boughe, 
And fell downe to his foote. 

16. "Woe worth thee, wicked wood," sayd 

Litle John, 
"That ere thou grew on a tree ! 
For this day thou art my bale, 

My boote ^ when thou shold bee ! " 

17. This shoote it was but looselye shott, 

The arrowe flew in vaine, 
And it matt one of the sheriffes men ; 
Good William a Trent was slaine. 70 

iS. It had beene better for William a Trent 
To hange upon a gallowe 
Then for to lye in the greenwoode, 
There slaine with an arrowe. 

19. And it is sayd, when men be mett, 

Six can doe more than three : 
And they have tane Litle John, 
And bound him ffast to a tree. 

20. "Thou shalt be drawen by dale and 

downe," quoth the sheriff e, 
"And hanged hye on a hill : " 80 

"But thou may ffayle," quoth Litle John, 
"If itt be Christs owne will." 

21. Let us leave talking of Litle John, 

For hee is bound fast to a tree. 
And talke of Guy and Robin Hood 
In the green woode where they bee. 

2 2 . How these two yeomen together they mett, 
Under the leaves of lyne,* 
To see what marchandise they made 
Even at that same time. 90 

23. "Good morrow, good fellow," quoth Sir 

Guy; 
"Good morrow, good ffellow," quoth 

hee; 
"Methinkes by this bow thou beares in 

thy hand, 
A good archer thou seems to bee." 

24. "I am wilfuU ^ of my way," quoth Sir 

Guye, 
"And of my morning tyde : " 



"I'le lead thee through the wood," quoth 
Robin, 
"Good ffellow, lie be thy guide." 

25. "I seeke an outlaw," quoth Sir Guye, 

"Men caU him Robin Hood ; 100 

I had rather meet vdth him upon a day 
Than forty pound of golde." 

26. "If you tow mett, itt wold be seene 

whether were better 
Afore yee did part awaye ; 
Let us some other pastime find, 
Good ffellow, I thee pray. 

27. "Let us some other masteryes make, 

And wee will walke in the v/oods even ; 
Wee may chance meet with Robin Hoode 
Att some unsett Steven." ^ no 

28. They cutt them downe the summer 

shroggs ^ 
Which grew both under a bryar. 
And sett them three score rood in twinn,^ 
To shoote the prickes full neare. 

29. "Leade on, good ffellow," sayd Sir Guye, 

"Lead on, I doe bidd thee:" 
"Nay, by my faith," quoth Robin Hood, 
"The leader thou shalt bee." 

30. The first good shoot that Robin ledd, 

Did not shoote an inch the pricke 
ffroe; 
Guy was an archer good enoughe, 121 
But he cold neere shoote soe. 

31. The second shoote Sir Guy shott, 

He shott within the garlande ; 
But Robin Hoode shott it better than hee, 
For he clove the good pricke-wande. 

32. "Gods blessing on thy heart!" sayes 

Guye, 
"Goode ffellow, thy shooting is goode; 
For an thy hart be as good as thy hands, 
Thou were better than Robin Hood. 130 

33. "Tell me thy name, good ffellow," quoth 

Guy, 
"Under the leaves of lyne:" 
"Nay, by my faith," quoth good Robin, 
"Till thou have told me thine." 



^ yew ^ made ready ^ help * linden ^ astray 



^ hour ' wands ^ apart 



76 



BALLADS 



34. "I dwell by dale and downe," quoth 

Guye, 
"And I have done many a curst turne ; 
And he that calles me by my right name, 
Calles me Guye of good Gysborne." 

35. "My dwellmg is in the wood," sayes 

Robin ; 
"By thee I set right nought ; 140 

My name is Robin Hood of Barnesdale, 
A ffellow thou has long sought." 

36. He that had neither beene a kithe nor 

kin 
Might have seene a full fayre sight, 
To see how together these yeomen went, 
With blades both browne and bright ; 

37. To have seene how these yeomen together 

fought 
Two howers of a simimer's day ; 
Itt was neither Guy nor Robin Hood 
That ffettled ^ them to flye away. 150 

38. Robin was reacheles ^ on a roote. 

And stumbled at that tyde, 
And Guy was quicke and nimble with-all. 
And hitt him ore the left side. 

39. "Ah, deere Lady !" sayd Robin Hoode, 

"Thou art both mother and ma}^ ! ^ 
I thinke it Avas never mans destinye 
To dye before his day." 

40. Robin thought on Our Lady deere. 

And soone leapt up againe, 160 

And thus he came with an awkwarde * 
stroke ; 
Good Sir Guy hee has slayne. 

41. He tooke Sir Guys head by the hayre, 

And sticked itt on his bowes end : 

"Thou hast beene traytor all thy liffe, 

Which thing must have an ende." 

42. Robin pulled forth an Irish kniffe, 

And nicked Sir Guy in the fface, 
That hee was never on a woman borne 
Cold tell who Sir Guye was. 1 70 

43. Sales, "Lye there, lye there, good Sir 

Guye, 
And with me be not wrothe ; 



If thou have had the worse stroakes at my 
hand, 
Thou shalt have the better cloathe." 

44. Robin did off his gowne of greene, 

Sir Guye hee did it throwe ; 

And hee put on that capull-hyde 

That cladd him topp to toe. 

45. "The bowe, the arrowes, and litle home, 

And ^ with me now I'le beare ; 180 
For now I will goe to Barnesdale, 
To see how my men doe ffare." 

46. Robin sette Guyes home to his mouth, 

■ A lowd blast in it he did blow ; 
That beheard the sheriffe of Nottingham, 
As he leaned imder a lowe.^ 

47. " Hearken ! hearken ! " sayd the sheriffe, 

" I heard noe ty dings but good ; 
For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home 
blowe. 
For he hath slaine Robin Hoode. 190 

48. "For yonder I heare Sir Guyes home 

blow, 
Itt blowes soe well in tyde. 
For yonder comes that wighty yeoman, 
Cladd in his capull-hyde. 

49. "Come hither, thoii good Sir Guy, 

Aske of mee what thou wilt have :" 
"I'le none of thy gold," sayes Robin 
Hood, 
"Nor I'ie none of itt have. 

50. "But now I have slaine the master," he 

sayd, • 
"Let me goe strike the knave; 200 
This is all the reward I aske, 
Nor noe other wiU I have." 

51. "Thou art a madman," said the shiriffe, 

"Thou sholdest have had a knights 
ffee; 
Seeing thy asking hath beene soe badd, 
Well granted it shall be." 

52. But Litlc John heard his master speake, 

Well he knew that was his Steven ; ^ 
"Now shall I be loset," •* quoth Litle John, 
"With Christs might in heaven." 210 



^ made ready ^ careless ^ maiden '' back-handed 



also 



2 hill 



released 



THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 



77 



53. But Robin hee hyed ^ him towards Litle 

John, 
Hee thought hee wold loose him belive ; ^ 
The sheriffe and all his companye 
Fast after him did drive. 

54. ''Stand abacke ! stand abacke!" sayd 

Robin ; 
" Why draw you mee soe nere ? 
Itt was never the use in our countrye 
Ones shrift another shold heere." 

55. But Robin pulled forth an Irysh kniffe, 

And losed John hand and ffoote, 220 
And gave him Sir Guyes bow in his hand, 
And bade it be his boote.^ 

56. But John tooke Guyes bow in his hand 

(His arrowes were rawstye* by the 
roote) ; 
* The sherriffe saw Litle John draw a bow 
And ffettle him to shoote. 

57. Towards his house in Nottingham 

He ffled full fast away. 
And soe did all his companye, 

Not one behind did stay. 230 

58. But he cold neither soe fast goe, 

Nor away soe fast runn, 
But Litle John, with an arrow broade. 
Did cleave his heart in twinn. 

THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 

1. Yt felle abowght the Lamasse tyde, 

Whan husbondes Wynnes ^ ther haye, 
The dowghtye Dowglasse bov/ynd "^ hym 
to ryde, 
In Ynglond to take a praye. 

2. The yerlle of Fyffe, wythowghten stryffe, 

He bowynd hym over Sulway ; 
The grete wolde ever to-gether ryde ; 
That raysse '' they may re we for aye. 

3. Over Hoppertope hyll they cam in, 

And so down by Rodclyffe crage ; 10 
Upon Grene Lynton they lyghted dowyn, 
Styrande ^ many a stage. 

4. And boldely brente ^ Northomberlond, 

And haryed many a towyn ; 

^ hastened ^ quickly ^ help "* clotted ^ dry ® got 
ready "^ raid ^ arousing ^ burned 



They dyd owr Ynglyssh men grete 
wrange, 
To battell that were not bowyn. 

5. Than spake a berne ^ upon the bent,^ 

Of comforte that was not colde. 
And sayd, "We have brente Northomber- 
lond, 
We have all welth in holde. 20 

6. "Now we have haryed all Bamborowe 

schyre, 
All the welth in the world have wee; 
I rede we ryde to Newe Castell, 
So styll and staiworthlye." 

7. Upon the morowe,^ when it was day, 

The standerds schone fuUe bryght ; 
To the Newe Castell they toke the waye, 
And thether they cam fuUe ryght. 

8. Syr Henry Perssy laye at the New Castell, 

I tell yow wythowtten drede ; ** 30 

He had byn a march-man all hys dayes. 
And kepte Barwyke upon Twede. 

9. To the Newe Castell when they cam, 

The Skottes they cryde on hyght : 
" Syr Hary Perssy, and thow byste within, 
Com to the fylde, and fyght. 

10. "For we have brente Northomberlonde, 

Thy erytage good and ryght. 
And syne ^ my logeyng ^ I have take, 39 
V/yth my brande dubbyd many a 
knyght." 

11. Syr Flarry Perssy cam to the walles. 

The Skottyssch oste for to se, 
And sayd, "And thow hast brente North- 
omberlond, 
Full sore it rewyth me. 

12. "Yf thou hast haryed all Bamborowe 

schyre, 
Thow hast done me grete envye ; '' 
For the trespasse thow hast me done. 
The tone * of us schall dye." 

13. "Where schall I byde the?" sayd the 

Dowglas, 
"Or where wylte thow com to me ? " 50 
"At Otterborne, in the hygh way, 
Ther mast thow well logeed be. 

^ man ^ field ^ morrow * doubt ^ since ^ lodging 
^ hostility ^ the one 



78 

14. 



BALLADS 



"The roo ^ full rekeles ther sche rinnes, 
To make the game and glee ; 

The fawken and the fesaunt both, 
Amonge the holtes on hye. 



15. "Ther mast thow have thy welth at wyll, 

Well looged ther mast be ; 
Yt schall not be long or I com the tyll," 
Sayd Syr Harry Perssye. 60 

16. "Ther schall I byde the," sayd the 

Dowglas, 
"By the fayth of my bodye." 
"Thether schall I com," sayd Syr Harry 

Perssy 
"My trowth I plyght to the." 

17. A pype of wyne he gave them over the 

walles. 
For soth as I yow saye ; 
Ther he mayd the Dowglasse drjmke, 
And all hys ost that daye. 

18. The Dowglas turnyd hym homewarde 

agayne. 
For soth withowghten naye ; 70 

He toke his logeyng at Oterborne, 
Upon a Wedynsday. 

19. And ther he pyght ^ hys standerd dowyn, 

Hys gettyng more and lesse,^ 
And syne he warned hys men to goo 
To chose ther geldynges gresse.'* 

20. A Skottysshe knyght hoved ^ upon the 

bent,*^ 
A wache ^ I dare well saye ; 
So was he ware on the noble Perssy 
In the dawnyng of the daye. 80 

21. He prycked to hys pavyleon dore, 

As faste as he myght ronne ; 
"Awaken, Dowglas," cryed the knyght, 
"For Hys love that syttes in trone. 

22. "Awaken, Dowglas," cryed the knyght, 

" For thow maste waken wyth wynne ; * 
Vender have I spyed the prowde Perssye, 
And seven stondardes wyth hym." 

23. "Nay by my trowth," the Dowglas sayed, 

"It ys but a fayned taylle ; 90 

^ roe ''■ fixed ^ all he had got '' grass ^ tarried 
* field ^ sentinel ** joy 



He durst not loke on my brede ^ banner . 
For all Ynglonde so haylle. 

24. "Was I not yesterdaye at the Newe 

Castell, 
That stondes so fayre on Tyne ? 
For all the men the Perssy had, 

He coude not garre ^ me ones to dyne." 

25. He stepped owt at his pavelyon dore. 

To loke and it were lesse : ^ 
"Araye yow, lordynges, one and all. 
For here bygynnes no peysse.^ 100 

26. "The yerle of Mentaye, thow arte my 

eme,^ 
The fowarde ^ I gyve to the : 
The yerlle of Huntlay, cawte and kene/ 
He schall be wyth the. 

27. "The lorde of Bowghan, in armure 

bryght. 
On the other hand he schall be ; 
Lord Jhonstoune and Lorde Maxwell, 
They to schall be with me. • 

28. "Swynton, fayre fylde upon your pryde ! 

To batell make yow bowen no 

Syr Davy Skotte, Syr Water Stewarde, 
Syr Jhon of Agurstone ! " 

29. The Perssy cam byfore hys oste, 

Wych was ever a gentyll knyght ; 

Upon the Dowglas lowde can ^ he crye, 

"I wyll holde that I have hyght.^ 

30. "For thou haste brente Northomberlonde, 

And done me grete envye ; 
For thys trespasse thou hast me done , 
The tone ^° of us schall dye." 120 

31. The Dowglas answerde hym agayne, 

Wyth grett wurdes upon hye, 
And sayd, "I have twenty agaynst thy 
one, 
Byholde, and thou maste see." 

32. Wyth that the Perssy was grevyd sore, 

For soth as I yow saye ; 
He lyghted dowyn upon his foote, 

And schoote " hys horsse clene awaye. 

^ broad ^ make ^ if it might be false ^ peace 
^ uncle "^ van ^ wary and bold ^ did ^ promised 
^° one ^^ sent away 



THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 



79 



S3. Every man sawe that he dyd soo, 

That ryall ^ was ever in rowght ; - 130 
Every man schoote hys horsse hym froo, 
And lyght hym rowynde abowght. 

34. Thus Syr Hary Perssye toke the fylde, 

For soth as I yow saye ; 
Jhesu Cryste in hevyn on hyght 
Dyd helpe hym well that daye. 

35. But nyne thowzand, ther was no moo, 

The cronykle wyll not layne ; ^ 
Forty thowsande of Skottes and fowre 
That day fowght them agayne. 140 

36. But when the batell byganne to joyne, 

In hast ther cam a knyght ; 
The letters fayre furth hath he tayne, 
And thus he sayd full ryght : 

37. "My lorde your father he gretes yow well, 

Wyth many a noble knyght ; 
He desyres yow to byde 

That he may see thys fyght. 

38. "The Baron of Grastoke ys com out of 

the west, 
With hym a noble companye ; 150 

AU the}^ loge at your fathers thys nyght, 
And the batell fayne wolde they see." 

39. " For Jhesus love," sayd Syr Harye Perssy, 

"That dyed for yow and me, 
Wende to my lorde my father agayne. 
And saye thow sawe me not with yee.* 

40. "My trowth ys plyght to yonne Skottysh 

knyght, 
It nedes me not to layne. 
That I schulde bj'de hym upon thys bent. 
And I have hys trowth agayne. 160 

41 . " And if that I weynde of ^ thys growende. 

For soth, onfowghten awaye, 
He wolde me call but a kowarde knyght 
In hys londe another daye. 

42. "Yet had I lever to be rynde and rente, ^ 

By Mary, that mykkel maye," 
Then ever my manhood schulde be re- 
pro vyd 
Wyth a Skotte another daye. 

' royal - company ^ conceal ■* eye ^ count 
from '' flayed and drawn ' powerful maid 



"Wherefore schote, archars, for my sake, 
And let scharpe arowes flee ; 170 

Mynstrells, playe up for your waryson,^ 
And well quyt it schall bee. 

"Every man thynke on hys trewe-love, 
And marke hym to the Trenite ; 

For to God I make myne avowe 
Thys day wyll I not flee." 

The blodye harte in the Dowglas armes, 
Hys standerde stood on hye, 

That every man myght full well knov.'e ; 
By syde stode starres thre. 180 

The whyte lyon on the Ynglyssh perte,^ 

For soth as I yow sayne, 
The lucettes ^ and the cressawntes both ; 

The Skottes faught them agayne. 

Upon Sent Androwe lowde can they crye, 
And thrysse they schowte on hyght, ^ 

And syne merked them one owr Yng- 
lysshe men, 
As I have tolde yow ryght. 

Sent George the bryght, owr Ladyes 
knyght. 

To name they were full fayne ; 190 
Owr Ynglyssh men they cryde on hyght, 

And thrysse the}^ schowtte agayne. 

Wyth that scharpe arowes bygan to flee, 

I tell yow in ser tayne ; 
Men of armes byganne to joyne, 

Many a dowghty man was ther slayne. 



50. The Perssy and the Dowglas mette. 

That ether of other was fajme ; 
They swapped ^ together whyll '"• that 
they swette, 
Wyth swordes of fyne collayne : ^ 200 

51. TyU the bloode from ther bassonnettes * 

ranne. 
As the roke ^ doth in the rayne ; 
"Yelde the to me," sayd the Dowglas, 
"Or elles thow schalt be slayne. 

52. "For I see by thy bryght bassonet, 

Thow arte sum man of myght ; 
And so I do by thy burnysshed brande ; 
Thow arte an yerle, or cllcs a knyght." 

1 reward - part •'' pike (fish) ^ aloud ^ smote 
^ till ' Cologne steel * basinets ^ smoke 



43- 



44. 



45- 



46. 



47- 



48. 



49. 



BALLADS 



53. "By my good faythe," sayd the noble 

Perss)^e, 
"Now haste thou rede ^ full ryght 5210 
Yet wyll I never yelde me to the, 
Whyll I may stonde and fyght." 

54. They swapped together whyll that they 

swette, 
Wyth swordes scharpe and long ; 
Ych on other so faste they beette, 

Tyll ther helmes cam in peyses dowyn. 

55. The Perssy was a man of strenghth, 

I tell yow in thys stounde ; ^ 
He smote the Dowglas at the swordes 
length 
That he fell to the growynde. 220 

56. The sworde was scharpe, and sore can byte, 

I tell yow in sertayne ; 
To the harte he cowde ^ hym smyte, 
Thus was the Dowglas slayne. 

57. The stonderdes stode sty 11 on eke a ■* syde, 

Wyth many a grevous grone ; 
Ther they fowght the day, and all the 
nyght. 
And many a dowghty man was slayne. 

58. Ther was no freke ^ that ther wolde fiye, 

But styffely in stowre ^ can stond, 230 
Ychone hewyng on other whyll they 
myght drye,^ 
Wyth many a bayllefuU bronde. 

59. Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde, 

For soth and sertenly, 
Syr James a Dowglas ther was slayne, 
That day that he cowde ^ dye. 

60. The yerlle of Mentaye he was slayne, 

Grysely ^ groned upon the growynd ; 
Syr Davy Skotte, Syr Water Stewarde, 
Syr Jhon of Agurstoune. 240 

61. Syr Charlies Morrey in that place, 

That never a fote wold flee ; 
Syr Hewe Maxwell, a lord he was, 
Wyth the Dowglas dyd he dye. 

62. Ther was slayne upon the Skottes syde. 

For soth as I yow saye, 

^discerned -time ^ did ''every ^ man ''battle 
^ endure ** fearfully 



Of fowre and forty thowsande Scottes 
Went but eyghtene awaye. 

63. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglysshe syde. 

For soth and sertenly e, 250 

A gentell knyght, Syr Jhon Fechewe, 
Yt was the more pety. 

64. Syr James HardboteU ther was slayne, 

For hym ther hartes were sore ; 

The gentyll Lovell ther was slayne. 

That the Perssys standerd bore. 

65. Ther was slayne upon the Ynglyssh perte, 

For soth as I yow saye. 
Of nyne thowsand Ynglyssh men 

Fyve hondert cam awaye. 260 

66. The other were slayne in the fylde; 

Cryste kepe ther sowUes from wo ! 
Seyng ^ ther was so fewe fryndes 
Agaynst so many a foo. 



67. 



Then on the morne they mayde them 
beerys 

Of byrch and haysell graye ; 
Many a wydowe, wyth wepyng teyres, 

Ther makes they fette '^ awaye. 



Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne, 
Bytwene the nyght and the day ; 

Ther the Dowglas lost hys lyffe. 
And the Perssy was lede awaye. 



270 



69. Then was ther a Scottysh prisoner tayne, 

Syr Hewe Mongomery was hys name ; 
For soth as I j'ow saye. 
He borowed ^ the Perssy home agayne. 

70. Now let us all for the Perssy praye 

To Jhesu most of myght. 
To bryng hys so wile to the blysse of heven, 
For he was a gentyll knyght. 280 

SIR PATRICK SPENS 

The king sits in Dumferling toune, 

Drinking the blude-reid wine : 
"O whar will I get guid sailor, 

To sail this schip of mine?" 

Up and spak an eldern knicht. 
Sat at the kings richt kne : 

^ seeing ^ fetched ^ ransomed 



CAPTAIN CAR, OR, EDOM GORDON 



"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, 
That sails upon the se." 

The king has written a braid letter, 

And signd it \vi his hand, lo 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, 
Was walking on the sand. 

The first line that Sir Patrick red, 

A loud lauch ^ lauched he ; 
The next line that Sir Patrick red. 

The teir blinded his ee. 

"O wha is this has don this deid, 

This ill deid don to me. 
To send me out this time o' the yeir. 

To sail upon the se ! 20 

"JNIak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all. 
Our guid schip sails the morne :" 

"O say na sae, my master deir. 
For I feir a deadlie storme. 

"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, 

Wi the auJd moone in hir arme, 
And I feir, I feir, my deir master. 

That we will cum to harme." 

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith - 

To weet their cork-heild schoone ; 30 

Bot lang owre ^ a' the play wer playd, 
Thair hats they swam aboone.^ 

O lang, lang may their ladies sit, 

Wi thair fans into their hand. 
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence 

Cum sailing to the land. 

O lang, lang may the ladies stand, 
Wi thair gold kems ^ in their hair, 

Waiting for thair ain deir lords. 

For they'U se thame na mair. 40 

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, 

It's fiftie fadom deip. 
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, 

Wi the Scots lords at his feit. 



CAPTMN CAR, OR, EDOM O GORDON 

I. It befell at Martynmas, 

When wether waxed colde, 
Captaine Care said to his men, 
"We must go take a holde." " 

* laugh * loth ^ ere * above ^ combs ® castle 



6. 



8. 



Syck,i sike,^ and to-towe ^ sike, 

And sike and like to die ; 
The sikest nighte that ever I abode, 

God Lord have mercy on me ! 

"Haille, master, and wether^ you will. 
And wether 3 ye like it best." 10 

"To the castle of Crecrynbroghe, 
And there we will take our reste." 

"I knowe wher is a gay castle. 
Is builded of lyme and stone ; 

Within their is a gay ladie. 
Her lord is riden and gone." 

The ladie she lend on her castle-walle, 

She loked upp and downe ; 
There was she ware of an host of men, 

Come riding to the towne. 20 

" Se yow, my meri men all, 

x'V.nd se yow what I see ? 
Yonder I see an host of men, 

I muse who they shold bee." 

She thought he had ben her wed lord, 

As he comd riding home ; 
Then was it traitur Captaine Care 

The lord of Ester-towne. 

They wer no soner at supper sett. 

Then after said the grace, 30 

Or Captaine Care and all his men 
Wer lighte aboute the place. 



Gyve over thi howsse, thou lady gay, 
And I wiU make the a bande ; 
To-nighte thou shall ly within my armes, 
To-morrowe thou shall ere * my lande." 

9. Then bespacke the eldest sonne. 
That was both whitt and rcdde : 
"O mother dere, geve over your howsse. 
Or elles we shalbe dcadc." 40 

[o. 'T will not geve over my hous," she 
saithe, 
"Not for feare of my lyffe; 
It shalbe talked throughout the land. 
The slaughter of a wyffe. 

[I. "Fetch me my pestilett,* 

And charge me my gonne, 

^ sick 2 too-too * whither ■* possess ^ pistol 



82 



BALLADS 



That I may shott at this bloddy butcher, 
The lord of Easter-towne." 



12. Styfly upon her wall she stode, 
And lett the pellettes flee ; 
But then she myst the blody bucher, 
And she slew other three. 



50 



13. "I will not geve over my hous," she 23. 
saithe, 
"Netheir for lord nor lowne ; 
Nor yet for traitour Captaine Care, 
The lord of Easter-towne. 



For a blaste of the westryn wind, 
To dryve the smoke from thee. 

"Fy upon the, John Hamleton, 
That ever I paid the hyre ! 

For thou hast broken my castle-waU, 
And kyndled in the ffyre." 

The lady gate to her close parler,^ 
The fire fell aboute her head ; 

She toke up her children two, 
Seth, "Babes, we are all dead." 



14. "I desire of Captine Care, 

And all his bloddy e band, 
That he would save my eldest sonne, 
The eare ^ of all my lande." 60 

15. "Lap him in a shete," he sayth, 

"And let him downe to me. 
And I shall take him m my armes, 
His waran shall I be." 

16. The captayne sayd unto him selfe ; 

Wyth sped, before the rest, 
He cut his tonge out of his head, 
His hart out of his brest. 

17. He lapt them in a handkerchef. 

And knet it of knotes three, 70 

And cast them over the castell-waU, 
At that gay ladye. 

18. "Fye upon the, Captayne Care, 

And all thy bloddy band ! 
For thou hast slayne my eldest sonne. 
The ayre of all my land." 

19. Then bespake the yongest sonne, 

That sat on the nurses knee, 
Sayth, "Mother gay, geve over your 
house ; 
For the smoake it smoothers me." 80 

20. Out then spake the Lady Margaret, 

As she stood on the stair ; 
The fire was at her goud ^ garters. 
The lowe ^ was at her hair. 

21. "I wold geve my gold," she saith, 

"And so I woldc my ffee, 



90 



24. Then bespake the hye steward. 

That is of hye degree ; 
Saith, "Ladie gay, you are in close. 
Wether ye fighte or flee." 100 

25. Lord Hamleton dremd in his dream, 

In Carvall where he laye. 
His haUe were all of fyre, 
His ladie slayne or daj^e.^ 

26. "Busk and bowne, my mery men aU, 

Even and go ye with me ; 
For I dremd that my haU was on fyre. 
My lady slayne or day." 

27. He buskt him and bownd hym, 

And like a worthi knighte ; no 

And when he saw his hall burning. 
His harte was no dele lighte. 

28. He sett a trumpett till his mouth. 

He blew as it plesd his grace ; 
Twenty score of Hamlentons 
Was light aboute the place. 

29. "Had I knowne as much yesternighte 

As I do to-daye. 
Captain Care and all his men 

Should not have gone so quite. 120 

30. "Fye upon the, Captaine Care, 

And all thy blody bande ! 
Thou haste slayne my lady gay, 
More wurth then all thy lande. 

31. "If thou had ought eny ill will," he saith, 

"Thou shoulde have taken my lyffe, 
And have saved my children thre, 
AU and my lovesome wylTe." 



heir 



' gold ^ flame 



parlor 



ere day 



HIND HORN 



83 



LORD RANDAL 

1. "O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my 

son? 
O where hae ye been, my handsome young 

man?" 
"I hae been to the wild wood; mother, 

make my bed soon. 
For I'm weary wi himting, and fain wald lie 

down." 

2. "Where gat ye your dinner. Lord Randal, 

my son? 
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome 

young man ? ' ' 
"1 din'd wi my true-love; mother, make 

my bed soon, 
For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald 
lie down." 

3. "What gat ye to your dinner. Lord Randal, 

my son ? 
What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome 

young man ? " 10 

"I gat eels boUed in broo ; mother, make 

my bed soon, 
For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie 

down." 



2.^ He sent a letter to our king 

That he was in love with his daughter 
Jean. 

3. The king an angry man was he ; 

He sent young Hind Horn to the sea. 

4. He's gien to her a silver wand. 

With seven living lavrocks ^ sitting 
thereon. 10 

5. She's gien to him a diamond ring, 
With seven bright diamonds set therein. 

6. "When this ring grows pale and wan, 
You may know by it my love is gane." 

7. One day as he looked his ring upon, 
He saw the diamonds pale and wan. 

8. He left the sea and came to land. 

And the first that he met was an old beg- 
gar man. 

9. "What news, what news?" said young 

Hind Horn ; 
"No news, no news," said the old beggar 
man. 20 



4. "What became of your bloodhounds. Lord 

Randal,- my son ? 
What became of your bloodhounds, my 

handsome young man?" 
"O they sweUd and they died; mother, 

make my bed soon. 
For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald 

lie down." 

5 . "01 fear ye are poison 'd , Lord Randal , m y 

son ! 
O I fear ye are poisond, m^y handsome 

young man !" 
"O yes ! I am poisond ; mother, make my 

bed soon, 
For I'm sick at the heart and I fain wald lie 

down." 20 



HIND HORN 

I. In Scotland there was a babie born, 
Lili lal, etc. 
And his name it was called young Hind 
Horn. 
With a fal lal. etc. 



10. " No news," said the beggar, " no news at a' 
But there is a wedding in the king's ha. 

11. "But there is a wedding in the king's ha, 
That has halden these forty days and 

twa." 

12. "Will ye lend me your begging coat? 
And I'll lend you my scarlet cloak. 

13. "Will you lend me your beggar's rung? ^ 
And I'll gie you my steed to ride upon. 

14. "Will you lend me your wig o hair, 

To cover mine, because it is fair?" 30 

15. The auld beggar man was bound for the 

mill, _ 
But young Hind Horn for the king's hall. 

16. The auld beggar man was bound for to 

ride, 
But young Hind Horn was bound for the 
bride. 

* larks 2 stj^g 



84 



SIR THOMAS MALORY 



17. When he came to the king's gate, 

He sought a drink for Hind Horn's sake. 

18. The bride came down with a glass of wine, 
When he drank out the glass, and dropt 

in the ring. 

19. "O got ye this by sea or land? 

Or got ye it off a dead man's hand?" 40 

20. "I got not it by sea, I got it by land. 
And I got it, madam, out of your own 

hand." 

21. "0 I'll cast off my gowns of brown. 
And beg wi you frae town to town. 

22. "0 I'll cast off my gowns of red. 
And I'U beg wi you to win my bread." 

2;^. "Ye needna cast off your gowns of 
brown. 
For I'U make you lady o many a town. 

24, "Ye needna cast off your gowns red. 
It's only a sham, the begging o my 
bread." 50 

ST. STEPHEN AND HEROD 

1. Seynt Stevene was a clerk in Kyng 

Herowdes halle, 
And servyd him of bred and cloth, as 
every kyng befalle. 

2. Stevyn out of kechone cam, wyth boris ^ 

hed on honde ; 
He saw a sterre was fayr and brygt over 
Bedlem stonde. 

3. He kyst ^ adoun the boris hed and v/ent 

in to the halle : 
"I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi 
werkes alle. 

4. "I forsak the, Kyng Herowdes, and thi 

werkes alle ; 
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter 
than we alle." 

5. "What evlytHhe, Stevene? What is the 

befalle? 
Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in 
Kyng Herowdes halle?" 10 

^ boar's ^ cast ^ aileth 



6. "Lakit me neyther mete nor drynk in 

Kyng Elerowdes halle ; 
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter 
than we alle." 

7. "What eylyt the, Stevyn? Art thu 

wod,^ or thu gynnyst to brede ? ^ 
Lakkyt the eyther gold or fe,^ or ony 
ryche wede?" ^ 

8. "Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe, ne non 

ryche wede ; 
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born xal helpyn 
us at our nede." 

9. "That is al so soth,^ Stevyn, al so soth, 

iwys,® 
As this capoun crowe xal that lyth here 
in myn dysh." 

10. That word was not so sone seyd, that 

word in that halle. 
The capoun crew Cristus natus est ! among 
the lordes alle. 20 

11. "Rysyt "^ up, myn turmentowres,* be to ^ 

and al be on. 
And ledyt Stevyn out of this toun, and 
stony t hym W3^th ston !" 

12. Tokyn he ^° Stevene, and stonyd hym in 

the way. 
And therefore is his evyn on Crystes owyn 
day. 



SIR THOMAS MALORY 

(i40o?-i47o) 

LE MORTE DARTHUR 

BOOK XXI. From CAPITULUM V 

"But I may not stonde, myn hede werches" 
soo. A, Syr Launcelot," sayd kyng Arthur, 
" thys day have I sore myst the. Alas ! that 
ever I was ayenst ^^ the, for now have I my 
dethe, wherof Syr Gauwayn me warned in my 
dreme." Than Syr Lucan took up the kyng 
the one parte, and Syr Bedwere the other parte, 
and in the lyftyng the kyng sowned,^^ and Syr 

^ crazy ^ be whimsical ^ property '' garment 
^ true ^ indeed ^ rise ^ executioners ' by two ^^ they 
^^ aches ^^ against ^^ swooned 



LE MORTE DARTHUR 



85 



Lucan fyl in a sowne ^ wyth the lyfte, that the 
parte of his guttes fyl oute of his bodye. And 
therwyth the noble knyghtes herte braste.^ 
And whan the kyng awake, he behelde Syr 
Lucan how he laye foomyng at the mowth, 
and parte of his guttes laye at his feet. 
"Alas!" sayd the kyng, "thys is to me a ful 
hevy syght to see thys noble duke so deye 
for my sake, for he wold have holpen me that 
had more nede of helpe than I. Alas ! he 
wold not complayne hym, hys herte was so 
sette to helpe me. Now Jhesu have mercy 
upon hys soule." Than Syr Bedwere wepte 
for the deth of his brother. "Leve thys 
mornyng and wepyng," sayd the kyng, "for 
al this wyl not avaylle me ; for wyte ^ thou 
wel, and "^ I myght lyve my self, the deth of 
Syr Lucan wolde greve me ever more, but my 
tyme hyeth '^ fast," sayd the kyng. "Ther- 
fore," sayd Arthur unto Syr Bedwere, "take 
thou Excalybur, my good swerde, and goo 
with it to yonder water syde, and whan thou 
comest there, I charge the ® throwe my swerde 
in that water, and come ageyn and telle me 
what thou there seest." "My lord," sayd 
Bedwere, "your commaundement shal be 
doon, and lyghtly brynge you worde ageyn." 
So Syr Bedwere departed, and by the waye 
he behelde that noble swerde, that the pomel 
and the hafte was al of precyous stones ; and 
thenne he sayd to hym self, " Yf I throwe this 
ryche swerde in the water, therof shal never 
come good, but harme and losse." And 
thenne Syr Bedwere hydde Excalybur under 
a tree. And so as sone as he myght he came 
ageyn unto the kyng, and sayd he had ben at 
the water, and had throwen the swerde in to 
the water. "What sawe thou there?" sayd 
the kyng. " Syr," he sayd, "I sawe no thynge 
but wawes ^ and wyndes." "That is un- 
trewly sa3'd of the," ^ sayd the kynge. 
"Therfore goo thou lyghtelye ^ ageyn, and 
do my commaundemente ; as thou arte to 
me leef ^ and dere, spare not but throwe it 
in." Than Syr Bedwere retorned ageyn, and 
took the swerde in hys hande, and than hym 
thought synne and shame to throwe awaye 
that nobyl swerde ; and so efte^'^ he hydde the 
swerde, and retorned ageyn and tolde to the 
kyng that he had ben at the water, and done 
his commaundemente. "What sawe thou 
there?" sayd the kyng. "Syr," he sayd, "I 

^ swoon ^ burst ^ kno\^ ^ if ^ hastens ® thee 
^ waves * quickly ^ beloved ^° again 

AE 



saw no thynge but the waters wappe ^ and 
wawes wanne." ^ "A, tray tour, untrewe," 
sayd kyng Arthur, "now hast thou betrayed 
me twyse. Who wold have wente ^ that thou 
that hast been to me so leef '^ and dere, and 
thou arte named a noble knyghte, and wold 
betraye me for the richesse of the swerde? 
But now goo ageyn lyghtly, for thy longe 
taryeng putteth me in grete jeopardye of my 
lyf , for I have taken colde ; and but-yf ^ thou 
do now as I byd the, yf ever I may see the I 
shal slee ^ the '^ myn owne handes, for thou 
woldest for my ryche swerde see me dede." ® 
Thenne Syr Bedwere departed, and v^-ente to 
the swerde, and lyghtly took hit up, and wente 
to the water syde, and there he bounde the 
gyrdyl aboute the hyltes, and thenne he 
threwe the swerde as farre in to the water as 
he myght. And there cam an arme and an 
hande above the water and mette it, and 
caught it, and so shoke it thryse and braun- 
dysshed ; and than vanysshed awaye the hande 
wyth the swerde in the water. So Syr Bed- 
were came ageyn to the kyng and tolde hym 
what he sawe. 

"Alas!" sayd the kyng, "helpe me hens,' 
for I drede ^^ me I have taryed over longe." 
Than Syr Bedwere toke the kyng upon his 
backe, and so wente wyth hym to that water 
syde, and whan they were at the v\ater syde, 
evyn fast ^^ by the banke hoved ^" a lytyl barge 
wyth many fayr ladyes in hit, and emonge 
hem al was a queue, and al they had blacke 
hoodes, and al they wepte and shryked ^* 
whan they sawe kyng Arthur. "Now put me 
in to the barge," sayd the kyng ; and so he 
dyd softelye. And there receyved hym thre 
queues wyth grete mornyng, and soo they 
sette hem doun, and in one of their lappes 
kyng Arthur layed hys heed, and than that 
queue sayd, "A, dere broder, why have ye 
taryed so longe from me ? Alas ! this wounde 
on your heed hath caught overmoche coide." 
And soo than they rowed from the londe, and 
Syr Bedwere behelde all tho^^ ladyes goo from 
hym.^^ Than Syr Bedwere cryed, "A, my 
lord Arthur, what shal become of me, now ye 
goo from me and leve me here allone emonge 
myn enemyes?" "Comfort thy self," sayd 
the kyng, "and doo as wel as thou mayst, for 
in me is no truste for to truste in. For I wyl 

^ lap, beat - grow dark ^ thought ■'beloved ^ unless 
^ slay '^ thee * dead '' hence ^° fear ^^ close ^- hovered, 
floated ^^ shrieked " those ^^ i.e. Bedwere 



86 



STEPHEN HAWES 



in to the vale of Avylyon, to hele me of my 
grevous wounde. And yf thou here never 
more of me, praj^e for my soule." But ever 
the quenes and ladyes wepte and shryched/ 
that hit was pyte ^ to here. And assone as Syr 
Bedwere had loste the syght of the baarge, he 
wepte and way lied, and so took the foreste ; ^ 
and so he wente al that nyght, and hi the 
mornyng he was v/are ^ betwyxte two holtes 
hore ^ of a cliapel and an ermytage.^ 

WILLIAM CAXTON (i422?-i49i) 

PREFACE TO THE BOOKE OF 
ENEYDOS 

And whan I had advysed me in this sayd 
boke, I delybered ^ and concluded to trans- 
late it in to Englysshe, and forthwyth toke 
a penne and ynke and wrote a leef or twejme, 
whyche I oversawe agayn to corecte it ; and 
whan I sawe the fayr and straunge termes 
therein, I doubted ^ that it sholde not please 
some gentylmen whiche late blamed me, 
sayeng that in my translacyons I had over 
curyous ^ termes, which coude not be under- 
stande ^°of comyn peple, and desired me to use 
olde and homely termes in my translacyons. 
And fayn wolde I satysfye every man ; and, 
so to doo, toke an olde boke and redde therin ; 
and certaynly the Englysshe was so rude and 
brood " that I coude not wele understande it ; 
and also my lorde abbot of Westmynster ded 
so shewe to me late certayn evydences"^ 
wryton in olde Englysshe for to reduce it in 
to our Englysshe now used, and certaynly it 
was wreton in suche wyse that it was more 
lyke to Dutche than Englysshe ; I coude not 
reduce ne brynge it to be understonden. And 
certaynly our langage now used varyeth 
ferre ^^ from that whiche was used and spoken 
whan I was borne. For we Englysshe men 
ben borne under the domynacyon of the 
mone, whiche is never stedfaste but ever 
waverynge, wexynge one season and waneth 
and dyscreaseth " another season. And that 
comyn ^^ Englysshe that is spoken in one 
shyre varyeth from a-nother, in so moche 
that in my dayes happened that certayn 
marchauntes were in a ship in Tamyse for to 

^ shrieked - pity ' forest * he perceived ^ hoary 
forests '• hermitage ^ deliberated ^ feared ' curi- 
ous, ornate '" understood " broad ^^ legal docu- 
ments ^'^ far ^^ decreases ^^ common 



have sayled over the see into Zelande, and 
for lacke of wynde, thei taryed atte ^ Forlond, 
and wente to lande for to refreshe them. And 
one of theym named Sheffelde, a mercer, cam 
in to an hows and axed for mete and specyaly 
he axyed after eggys, and the goode wyf 
answerde that she could speke no Frenshe. 
And the marchaunt was angr}^, for he also 
' coude speke no Frenshe, but wolde have hadde 
egges; and she understode hym not. And 
thenne at laste a-nother sayd that he wolde 
have eyren.- Then the good wyf sayd that 
she understod hym wel. Loo,^ what sholde 
a man in thyse dayes now wryte, egges, or 
eyren? Certaynly it is hard to plaj^se every 
man, by-cause of dyversite and chaunge of 
langage ; for in these dayes every man that is 
in ony reputacyon in his countre wyll utter 
his commynycacyon and maters in suche 
maners and termes that fewe men shall under- 
stonde the3rm. And som honest and grete 
cierkes have ben wyth me and desired me to 
Avryte the moste curyous ^ termes that I 
coude fynde. And thus, betwene playn, 
rude, and curyous, I stande abasshed. But in 
my judgemente the comyn termes that be 
dayly used ben lyghter to be understonde 
than the olde and auncyent Englysshe. And, 
foras-moche as this present booke is not for 
a rude uplondyssh ^ man to laboure therein 
ne rede it, but onely for a clerke and a noble 
gentylman that feleth and understondeth in 
faytes ^ of armes, m love, and in noble ch5rv'- 
alrye, therfor in a meane bytwene bothe I 
have reduced and translated this sayd booke 
in our Englysshe, not over rude ne curyous, 
but in suche termes as shall be understanden, 
by Gbddys grace, accordynge to my copye. 

STEPHEN HAWES (d. 1523) 

THE PASTIME OF PLEASURE 

OF THE GREAT MARIAGE BETWENE 

GRAUNDE AMOUR AND LABELL 

PUCELL 

From Capit. XXXIX 

Then Perceveraunce in all goodly haste 
Unto the stewarde called Liberalitie 
Gave warnyng for to make ready fast 
Agaynst this tyme of great solemnitie 

^ at the * eggs ' lo ^ ornate, artificial ^ country 
•^ deeds 



JOHN SKELTON 



87 



That on the morowe halowed shoulde be. 
She warned the cooke called Temperaunce 
And after that the ewres,'- Observaunce, 

With Pleasaunce, the panter/ and dame 
Curtesy, 
The gentle butler, with the ladyes all. 
Eche in her office was prepared shortly 10 
Agaynst this feast so muche triumphall; 
And La Bell Pucell then m special! 
Was up by time in the morowe graye ; 
Right so was I when I sawe the daye. 

And right anone La Bell Pucell me sent, 
Agaynst my weddyng, of the saten fyne, 
White as the mylke, a goodly garment 
Braudred ' with pearle that clear ely dyd 

shine. 
And so, the mariage for to determine, 
Venus me brought to a royal chapell, 20 

Whiche of fine golde was wrought everydell. 

And after that the gay and glorious 
La Bell Pucell to the chapell was leade 
In a white vesture fayre and precious, 
With a golden chaplet on her yelowe heade ; 
And Lex Ecclesie did me to her wedde. 
After whiche weddyng then was a great feast ; 
Nothing we lacked, but had of the best. 

What ^ shoulde tary by longe continuance 
Of the f est ? for of my joy and pleasure 30 
Wisdome can judge, without variaunce. 
That nougt I lacked, as ye may be sure, 
Paiyng the swete due dette of nature. 
Thus with my lady, that was fayre and 

cleare. 
In joy I lived full ryght, many a yere. 

lusty youth and yong tender hart, 
The true companion of my lady bryght ! 
God let us never from other astart,^ ' 
But all in joye to live bothe daye and nyght. 
Thus after sorowe jo3^e arived aryght ; 40 

After my payne I had sport and playe ; 
Full litle thought I that it shoulde decaye, 

Tyll that Dame Nature Naturyng ^ had 
made 
All thingcs to growe unto their fortitude ; '' 

^ eweress, servant in charge of ewers, napkins, 
etc. ^ servant in charge of pantry ^ broidcrcd 
* why ^ start away ^ Naliira nalurans, Nature as 
a creative being '' strength 



And Nature Naturyng waxt retrograde. 
By strength my youthe so far to exclude, 
As was ever her olde consuetude 
First to augment and then to abate, — 
This is the custome of her hye estate. 49 

JOHN SKELTON (i46o?-iS29) 

From A DIRGE FOR PHYLLIP 
SPAROWE 

. Do mi nus^ 

Helpe nowe, swete Jesus ! 
Levavi oculos meos in monies: ' 
Wolde God I had Zenophontes, 
Or Socrates the wyse. 
To shew me their devyse, 100 

Moderatly to take 
This sorrow that I make 
For PhyUip Sparowes sake ! 
So fervently I shake, 
I fele my body quake ; 
So urgently I am brought 
Into carefull thought. 
Like Andromach, Hectors W3rfe, 
Was wery of her lyfe, 
Whan she had lost her joye, no 

Noble Hector of Troye ; 
In lyke manner also 
Encreaseth my dedly wo, 
For my sparowe is go. 

It was so prety a fole,^ 
It wold syt on a stole. 
And lerned after my scole 
For to kepe his cut,* 
With, "Phyllyp, kepe your cut !" 

It had a velvet cap, 120 

And wold syt upon my lap, 
And seke after small wormes, 
And somtyme white-bred crommes ; 
And many tymes and ofte 
Betwene my brestes softe 
It wolde lye and rest ; 
It was propre and prest.^ 

Somtyme he wolde gaspe 
Whan he sawe a waspe ; 
A fly or a gnat, 130 

He wolde flye at that ; 
And prytely he wold pant 
Whan he saw an ant ; 

^ Lord - 1 have lifted up mine eyes to the 
mountains. ^ fool ■* to act shy, to keep his dis- 
tance ^ ready 



THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE 



Lord, how he wolde pry- 
After the butterfly ! 
Lorde, how he wolde hop 
After the gressop ! ^ 
And whan I sayd, "Phyp ! Phyp !" 
Than he wold lepe and skyp, 
And take me by the lyp. 140 

Alas, it wyll me slo,^ 
That Phillyp is gone me fro ! 

From COLYN CLOUTE 

My name is Colyn Cloute. 

I purpose to shake oute 

AU my connyng bagge, 50 

Lyke a clerkely hagge ; 

For though my ryme be ragged. 

Tattered and jagged. 

Rudely rayne beaten. 

Rusty and moughte-eaten,' 

If ye take well therwith, 

It hath in it some pyth. 

For, as farre as I can se, 

It is wronge with eche degre ; 

For the temporalte 60 

Accuseth the spiritualte ; 

The spirituall agayne 

Dothe grudge and complayne 

Upon the temporall men : 

Thus eche of other blother * 

The tone ^ agayng the tother. 

Alas, they make me shoder ! 

For in hoder moder ^ 

The Churche is put in fauteJ 

The prelates ben so haut,^ 70 

They say, and loke so hy, 

As though they wolde fly 

Above the sterry skye. 

Laye-men say indede 

How they take no hede 

Theyr sely shepe to fede, 

But plucke away and pull 

The fleces of theyr wuU ; 

Unethes ^ they leve a locke 

Of wull amonges theyr flocke. 80 

And as for theyr connynge, 

A glommynge and a mummynge, 

And make therof a jape ; 

They gaspe and they gape, 

All to have promocyon ; 

There is theyr hole devocyon, 

With money, if it wyll hap, 

^ grasshopper ^ glay ^ motheaten * complain 
^ the one "^ in secret ^ fault ^ haughty ^ scarcely 



To catche the forked cap. 
Forsothe they are to lewd 
To say so, all beshrewd ! 90 

THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE 

(c. 1500) 

{Unknown Author) 

"Be it right or wrong, these men among ^on 

women do complaine, 
Affermyng this, how that it is a labour spent 

in vaine 
To love them wele, for never a dele they love a 

man agayne ; 
For lete a man do what he can ther favor to 

attayne. 
Yet yf a newe to them pursue, ther furst 

trew lover than ^ 
Laboureth for nought, and from her thought 

he is a bannisshed man." 

"I say not nay but that all day it is both writ 

and sayde 
That woman's fayth is, as who saythe, all 

utterly decayed ; 
But nevertheless right good witnes m this 

case might be la3^de 
That they love trewe and contynew — 

recorde the Nutbrowne Maide, 10 

Whiche from her love, whan, her to prove, he 

cam to make his mone, 
Wolde not departe, for in her herte she lovyd 

but hym allone." 

"Than betwene us lete us discusse what was 

all the maner 
Betwene them too, ^ we wyl also telle all the 

peyne infere * 
That she was in. Now I beg3'nne, soo that 

ye me answere. 
' Wherfore alle ye that present be, I pray you 

geve an eare. 
I am a knyght, I cum be nyght, as secret as I 

can, 
Sayng, 'Alas ! thus stondyth the case: I am 

a bannisshed man.'" 

"And I your wylle for to fulfylle, in this wyl 

not refuse. 
Trusting to shewe in wordis fevv'e that men 

have an ille use,^ 20 

^ continually * then ^ two ^ together ^ habit, 
custom 



THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE 



89 



To ther owne shame wymen to blame, and 

causeles them accuse. 
Therfore to you I answere now, alle wymen 

to excuse : 
'Myn owne hert dere, with you what chiere? 

I prey you telle anoon ; 
For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but 

you allon.'" 

"It stondeth so, a dede is do wherefore raoche 

harme shal growe. 
My desteny is for to dey a shamful dethe, 1 

trowe. 
Or ellis to flee ; the ton ^ must bee, none other 

wey I knowe 
But to withdrawe as an outlaw and take me to 

my bo we. 
Wherfore adew, my owne hert trewe, none 

other red ^ I can ; ^ 
For I muste to the grene wode goo, alone, a 

bannysshed man." 30 

"O Lorde, what is this worldis blisse, that 

chaungeth as the mone ? 
My somers day in lusty May is derked before 

the none. 
I here you saye ' farwel ; ' nay, nay, we de- 

parte not soo sone. 
Why say ye so ? wheder wyl ye goo ? alas ! 

what have ye done ? 
Alle my welfare to sorow and care shulde 

chaunge if ye were gon ; 
For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but 

you alone." 

"I can beleve it shal you greve, and somwhat 

you distrayne ; 
But aftyrwarde your paynes harde within a 

day or tweyne 
Shal sone aslake, and ye shal take confort to 

you agayne. 
Why shuld ye nought? for to take thought, 

your labur were in veyne. 40 

And thus I do, and pray you, loo ! as hertely 

as I can ; 
For I muste too the grene wode goo, alone, a 

bannysshed man." 

"Now syth that ye have shewed to me the 

secret of your mynde, 
I shalbe playne to you agajnae, lyke as ye shal 

me fynde ; 



plan 



' know 



Syth it is so that ye wyll goo, I wol not leve ^ 

behynde ; 
Shal ne'er be sayd the Nutbrowne Mayd was 

to her love unkind. 
Make you redy, for soo am I, all though it 

were anoon ; ^ 
For in my mynde of aE mankynde I love but 

you alone." 

"Yet I you rede to take good hede, what men 

wyl thinke and sey ; 
Of yonge and olde it shalbe tolde that ye be 

gone away, 50 

Your wanton wylle for to fulfylle, in grene 

wood you to play, 
And that ye myght from your delyte noo 

lenger make delay. 
Rather than ye shuld thus for me be called 

an ylle woman, 
Yet wolde I to the grenewodde goo, alone, a 

bannysshed man." 

"Though it be songe of olde and yonge that 

I shuld be to blame. 
Theirs be the charge that speke so large ia 

hurting of my name ; 
For I wyl prove that feythful love it is de- 

voj^d of shame. 
In your distresse and hevynesse to parte wyth 

you the same ; 
And sure aU thoo ^ that doo not so, trewe 

lovers ar they noon ; 
But in my mynde of all mankynde I love but 

you alone." 60 

"I councel yow, remembre how it is noo 

maydens lawe 
Nothing to dought, but to renne out to wod 

with an outlawe ; 
For ye must there in your hands bere a bowe 

redy to drawe, 
And as a theef thus must ye lyve ever in 

drede and awe. 
By whiche to yow gret harme myght grow ; 

yet had I lever than ■* 
That I had too the grenewod goo,'' alone, a 

banysshyd man." 

"I thinke not nay, but as ye saye, it is noo 

maydens lore ; 
But love may make me for your sake, as ye 

have said before, 

^ remain ^ at once ^ those '' I had rather then 
^ gone 



GO 



THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE 



To com on fote, to hunte and shote to get us 

mete and store ; 
For soo that I your company may have, I 

aske noo more ; 70 

From whiche to parte, it makith myn herte as 

colde as ony ston ; 
For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but 

you alone." 



Yet am I sure of 00 ^ plesure, and shortly it is 

this. 
That where ye bee, me semeth, perde, I coude 

not fare amysse. 
Wythout more speche, I you beseche that we 

were soon agone ; 
For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but 

you alone." 



"For an outlawe this is the lavv^e, that men 

hym take and binde, 
Wythout pytee hanged to bee, and waver 

wyth the wynde. 
Yf I had neede, as God forbede, what rescous ^ 

coude ye jinde ? 
For sothe I trowe, you and your bowe shul 

drawe for fere behynde ; 
And noo merveyle, for lytel avayle were in 

your councel than ; 
Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo, alone, a 

bannysshd man." 



"Yef ye goo thedyr, ye must consider, whan 

ye have lust to dyne, 
Ther shal no mete be fore to gete, nor drinke, 

bere, ale, ne wine, 
Ne shetis clene to lye betwene, made of thred 

and twyne. 
Noon othej house but levys and bowes, to 

kever your hed and myn. 100 

Loo ! mjm herte swete, this ylle dyet shuld 

make you pale and wan ; 
Wherfore I to the wood wyl goo, alone, a ban- 

ysshid man." 



"Ful wel knowe ye that wymen bee ful febyl 

for to fyght ; 
Noo womanhed is it indeede to bee bolde as a 

knight ; 80 

Yet in suche fere yi that ye were, amonge 

enemy s day and nyght, 
I wolde wythstonde, with bowe in hande, to 

greve them as I myght. 
And you to save, as wymen have from deth 

[ful] many one ; 
For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but 

you alone." 



"Amonge the wylde dere suche an archier as 

men say that ye bee 
Ne may not fayle of good vitayle, where is so 

grete plente ; 
And watir cleere of the ryvere shalbe ful 

swete to me, 
Wyth whiche in hele ^ I shal right wele endure, 

as ye shal see ; 
And, er we goo, a bed or twoo I can provide 

anoon ; 
For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but 

you alone." 



"Yet take good hede, for ever I drede that ye 

coude not sustein 
The thorney wayes, the depe valeis, the snowe, 

the frost, the reyn. 
The colde, the hete ; for, drye or wete, we 

must lodge on the playn, 
And, us above, noon other rove " but a brake, 

bussh, or twayne ; 
Whiche sone shulde greve you, I believe, and 

ye wolde gladly than 
That I had too the grenewode goo, alone, a 

banysshcd man." 90 



"Loo ! yet before ye must doo more, yf ye 
wyl goo with me, — 

As cutte your here up by your ere, your kirtel 
by the knee, no 

Wyth bowe in hande, for to withstonde your 
enmys, yf nede be. 

And this same nyght before daylyght to wood- 
ward wyl I flee ; 

And if ye wyl all this fulfylle, doo it shortely 
as ye can ; 

EUis wil I to the grenewode goo, alone, a 
banysshyd man." 



"Syth I have here ben partynere with you 

of joy and blysse, 
I musle also parte of your woo endure, as 

reason is ; 



"I shal, as now, do more for you than longeth 

to womanhede, 
To short my here, a bowe to bere to shote in 

time of node. 



- roof 



^ one - health 



THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE 



91 



O my swete moder, before all other, for you Remembre you wele how that ye dele, for yf 

have I most drede ; ye, as ye sayde, 

But now adiew ! I must ensue, wher fortune Be so unkynde to leve behynde your love, the 

doth me leede : Notbrowne Maide, 

All this make ye ; now lete us flee, the day Trust me truly that I shal dey sone after ye 

cim:meth fast upon ; be gone ; 

For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but For in my mynde of all maiil<:ynde I love but 

you alone." 120 you alone." 

iCKT . u 1 ^ I 1 T "Yef that ye went, ye shidde repent, for in 

Nay nay not soo, ye shal not goo ! and I ^^^ ^^/^^^ ^^^ ' ^ 

s a e >ou w y . j ^^^^ purveid me of a maide, whom I love 

iour appetyte is to be lyght of love, I wele ; ,1 



more than you. 
Another fayrer than ever ye were, I dare it 
wel avowe ; 



aspie ; 
For right as ye have sayd to me, in lykewise 

-^' 1 J 1 V • And of you both, eche shuld be wrothe with 

' '7/f j^f '^^'^' ^-hosoever it were, m way ^^^^^^ ^^ j_ ^;^^^_ 

T. • J t ^J' i I ^ , J , J It were myn ease to ly ve in pease ; so wyl I yf 

It IS sayd of olde, sone hote, sone colde, and t r-an • f , j j 



I can; 



TT71 r T * .-I. ' T 1 1 Wherfore I to the wode Avyl goo, alone, a 

Wherfore I too the woode wyl goo, alone, a h«n..=<:lnirl mcr. " ^ & ' ' 



banysshid man." 

"Yef ^ ye take hede, yet is noo nede, suche 

wordis to say bee - me. 
For oft ye preyd, and longe assayed, or I you 

lovid, perdee ! 
And though that I of auncestry a barons 

doughter bee. 
Yet have you proved how I you loved, a 



banysshid man. ' 150 

"Though in the wood I undirstode ye had a 

paramour, 
All this may nought remeve my thought, but 

that I wyl be your ; 
And she shal fynde me softe and kynde, and 

curteis every our, 
Glad to fulfylle all that she wyl comm.aunde 

me, to my power ; 



squyer of lowe degree, 130 For had ye, loo ! an hondred moo, yet wolde I 

And ever shal, what so befalle, to dey therfore be that one ; 



anoon ; 
For in my mynde of all mankynde I love but 
you alone." 

"A barons childe.to be begyled, it were a 
curssed dede. 



For in my mjaide of all mankynde I love but 
you alone." 

"Myn owne dere love, I see the prove that ye 

be kynde and trewe ; 
Of mayde and wyfe, in all my lyf, the best 

that ever I knewe ! 



^"^ Yorbide l"^'^^ ^"^ '"'^^^'"''' ^^"^yg^^y ^°^ Be mery and glad, be no more sad, the case 



Yet bettyr were the power ^ squyer alone to 
forest yede,^ 



is chaunged newe ; 
For it were ruthe that for your trouth you 
shuld have cause to rewe. 160 



'^^'^ wyked^dcdf' ^''''^^''' '^''^' ^^'^^ ^' ' ""^ ^^ "°^ dismayed, whatsoever I sayd, to you 

Ye were betrayed ; wherfore, good maide, the j ^^^^JJ \^^^^l' ^ewode goo, I am noo 

T .^.?H u ^'^"^\ 1 u banysshydman." 

Is that I too the grenewode goo, alone, a ban- ■' -^ 

ysshcd man." "Theis tidingis be more glad to me than to be 

made a queue, 

"WTiatsoever befalle. I never shal of this. Yf I were sure they shuld endure; but it is 

thing you upbraid ; often seen, 

But yf ye goo and leve me so, than have ye me When men wyl l^reke promyse, they speke the 

betraied. 140 wordis on the splene.^ 



if ^ by ^ poor ■* should go * advice 



capriciously 



92 



EARLY TUDOR LYRICS 



Ye shape some wyle, me to begyle, and stele 

fro me, I wene. 
Then were the case wurs than it was, and I 

more woo-begone ; 
For in my mynde of al mankynde I love but 

you alone." 

"Ye shal not nede further to drede, I wyl not 

disparage 
You, God defende, sith you descende of so 

grete a lynage. 170 

Now understonde, to Westmerlande, whiche 

is my herytage, 
I wyle you bringe, and wyth a rynge, be wey 

of maryage, 
I wyl you take, and lady make, as shortly as 

I can; 
Thus have ye wone an erles son, and not a 

bannysshyd man." 

Here may ye see that wymen be in • love 

meke, kinde, and stable. 
Late never man repreve them than, or caUe 

them variable. 
But rather prey God that we may to them 

be comfortable, — 
Whiche somtyme provyth suche as he loveth, 

yf they be charitable. 
For sith men wolde that wymen sholde be 

meke to them echeon, 
Moche more ought they to God obey, and 

serve but hym alone. 180 



EARLY TUDOR LYRICS (c. 1500) 
I. RELIGIOUS LYRIC 



Who shall have my fayr lady? 
Who but I? Who but 1 ? Who? 

Who shall have my fayr lady? 
Who hath more ryght therto? 

This lady clere 
That I sheu ^ here, 

Man soul yt ys, trust ye ; 
To Cryst most dere 
It hath no pere ; 

Therfor thys song syng we. 
Who shall, etc. 

^ show, declare 



"For love swetnes 
And joy endles 

I made my lady fre, 
Unto my lyknes 
I gave her quicnes ^ 

In Paradyse to be. 

Who shall, etc. 14 

"O my swet store, 
My true love therfore 

Thy place yt ys above ; 
What man may do more 
Than only dy therfore. 

Lady, for thy love ? 

Who shall," etc. 21 

11. CHRISTMAS CAROLS 



Thys ender nyght ^ 
I saw a syght, 

A star as bright as day ; 
And ever among 
A maydyn song : 

By-by, baby, luUay ! 

Thys vyrgyn clere 
Wythowtyn pere 

Unto hur son gane say : 
"My son, my lorde, 
My fathere dere, 

Why lyest thow in hay ? 12 

"Methynk by ryght 
Thow, kyng and knyght, 

Shiilde lye in ryclje aray, 
Yet none the lesse 
I wyll not cesse ^ 

To syng, By-by, lullay ! " 18 

Thys babe full bayne •* 
Aunsweryd agayne. 

And thus, me-thought, he sayd: 
"I am a kyng 
Above all thyng, 

Yn hay yff I be layde ; 24 

"For ye shall see 
That kynges thre 

Shall cum on the twelfe day. 
For thys behest 
Geffe me thy brest 

And sing, By-by, lullay ! " 30 



Mife 



"^ the other night 



^ cease ■* readily 



EARLY TUDOR LYRICS 



93 



"My son, I say 
Wythowtyn nay ^ 

Thow art my derling dere ; 
I shall the kepe 
Whyle thow dost slepe 
And make the - goode chere ; 36 

"And all thy wylle 
I wyU fulfill, 

Thou wotyst hyt well yn fay. 
Yet more then thys, — 
I wyll the kys 

And syng, By-by, lullay." 42 

"My moder swete. 
When I have slepe. 

Then take me up on lofte ; 
Upon your kne 
Thatt ye sett me 

And dandell me full soft ; 48 

"And in your arme 
Lap me ryght warme 

And kepe me nyght and day ; 
And yff I wepe 
And cannott slepe, 

Syng, By, baby, lullay." 54 

"My son, my lorde, 
My fader dere, 

Syth all ys at thy wyll, 
I pray the, son, 
Graunte me a bone, 

Yff hyt be ryght and skylle ; 60 

"That chylde or man, 
Whoever can 

Be mery on thys day. 
To blys them bryng 
And I shall syng : 

By-by, baby, lullay ! " 66 

"My moder shene,^ 
Of hevyn quene. 

Your askyng shall I spede. 
So that the myrth 
Dysplease me nott 

Yn wordes nor in dede. 72 

"Syng what ye wyll. 
So ye fullfyll 

My ten commaundements ay. 
Yow for to please 
Let them nott sesse ' 

To syng, Baby, lullay." 78 

^ certainly - thee ^ beautiful ■* cease 



II 

"Quid petis, ofily?" 
"Mater dulcissima, ha-bal " 
"Quid petis, fill? " 
"Michi plausus oscula da-da! " 

So laughyng in lap layde, 

So pretyly, so pertly. 
So passyngly well a-payd,^ 

Ful softly and full soberly 
Unto her swet son she said : 5 

"Quidpetys," etc. 

The moder full manerly and mekly as a 

mayd, 
Lokyng on her lytill son so laughyng in lap 

layd. 
So pretyly, so partly, so passingly well apayd, 
So passyngly wel apayd, 10 

Full softly and full soberly 
Unto her son she saide. 
Unto her son saide : 

"Quid petis," etc. 

I mene this by Mary, our Makers moder of 

myght. 
Full lovely lookyng on our Lord, the lan- 

terne of lyght, 16 

Thus saying to our Savior ; this saw I in my 

syght. 

Ill 

Make we mery, bothe more and lasse, 
For now ys the iyme of Crystymas I 

Let no man cum into this hall, 
Grome, page, nor yet marshal. 
But that sum sport he biyng withall, 

For now ys the tyme of Crj'stymas. 4 

Make we mery, etc. 

Yffe that he say he can not syng. 

Sum oder sport then lett hym bryng, 

That yt may please at thys festyng, 8 

For now ys the tyme of Crystymas. 

Make we mery, etc. 

Yffe he say he can nowght do. 

Then, for my love, aske hym no mo, 12 

But to the stokke then lett hym go. 

For now ys the tyme of Crystymas. 

Make we mery, etc. 

^ satisfied 



94 



EARLY TUDOR LYRICS 



IV 

What cher ? Gud cher ! gud cher, gud cher ! 
Be mery and glad this gud Newyere ! 

"Lyft up your hartes and be glad 
In Crystes byrth," the angell bad; 
Say eche to oder, yf any be sad, 

"What cher," etc. 4 

Now the kyng of hevyn his byrth hath take, 
Joy and myrth we owght to make ; 
Say eche to oder for hys sake, 

"What cher," etc. 8 

I tell you all with hart so fre, 
Ryght welcum ye be to me ; 
Be glad and mery, for charite ! 

"What cher," etc. 12 

The gudman of this place in fere ^ 
You to be mery he prayth you here. 
And with gud hert he doth to you say, 

"What cher," etc. 16 



III. CONVIVIAL SONGS 
I 

FyU the cuppe, Phytyppe, 

And let us drynke a drama ! 
0ns or tw)'s abowte the howse 

And leave where we began. 
I drynke to your swete harte 

Soo mutche as here is in, 
Desyeringe yow to foUowe me 

And doo as I begyn ! 
And yf you will not pledge. 

You shall here the blame. 
I drynke to you with all my harte, 

Yf you will pledge me the same. 



II 



Make rome,' syrs, and let us be mery, 

With "Huffa, galand!" 
Synge," "Tyrll on the bery," 
And let the wyde worlde wynde ! 

Synge, " Fryska joly," 

With "Hey, trolyloly," 

For I se well it is but foly 
For to have a sad mynd ! 

^ together - room 



IV. LOVE SONGS 

I 

Lully, lulley, lulley, lulley ! 

The fawcon hath born my make ^ away ! 

He bare hym up, he bare hym down, • 
He bare hym into an orchard brown. 

Lully, lulley, etc. 3 

Yn that orchard there v/as an halle 
That was hangid with purpill and pall. 

Lully, lulley, etc. 6 

And in that hall there was a bede, 
Hit was hangid with gold so rede. 

Lully, lulley, etc. 9 

And yn that bed there lythe a knyght, 
His wowndis bledyng day and nyght. 

Lully, lulley, etc. 12 

By that bedis side kneleth a may, 
And she wepeth both night and day. 

Lully, lulley, etc. 15 

And by that beddis side there stondith a 

ston, 
Corpus Christi wretyn thereon. 

Lully, lulley, etc. 18 

II 

The lytyll, prety nyghtyngale. 

Among the levys grene, 
I wold I were with her all nyght ! 

But yet ye wote - not whome I mene ! 

The nyghtyngale sat one a brere 
Among the thornys sherp and keyn 

And comfort me wyth mery cher. 
But yet ye wot not whome I mene ! 

She dyd aper ^ all on ^ hur kej^nde ^ 

A lady ryght wel be-seyne, 10 

Wyth wordys of loff tolde m.e hur mynde. 
But yet ye wot not whome I mene. 

Hyt dyd me goode upon hur to loke, 
Hur corse was closyd all in grene ; 

Away fro me hur herte she toke, 
But yete ye wot not whome I mene. 

"Lady !" I cryed, wyth rufuU mone, 

"Have mynd of me, that true hath bene ! 

For I loved none but you alone." 

But yet ye wot not whome I mene. 20 

^ mate, sweetheart ^ know ^ appear ' in ^ nature 



THE BEGINNING OF THE RENAISSANCE 



SIR THOMAS MORE (1478-1535) 

A DIALOGUE OF SYR THOMAS MORE, 
KNYGHTE 



From THE THIRDE BOKE. 
CHAPITER 



THE 16. 



The messenger rehearseth some causes which he 
hath herd laid ^ by some of the clergie wherfore 
the Scripture should not be suffred in Englishe. 
And the author sheweth his mind, that it wer con- 
venient to have the Byblc in Englishe. 

"Syr," quod your frende, "yet for al this, 
can I see no cause why the cleargie shoulde 
kepe the Byble out of ley mennes handes, 
that can - no more but theyr mother tong." 
"I had went," ^ quod I, "that I had proved 
you playnely that they kepe it not from them. 
For I have shewed you that they kepe none 
from them, but such translacion as be either 
not yet approved for good, or such as be alredi 
reproved for naught, as Wikliffes was and 
Tindals. For as for other olde ones,* that 
wer before Wickliffes dales, remain lawful, 
and be in some folkes handes had and read." 
"Ye saye well," qtiod he. "But yet as weo- 
men saye, 'somewhat it was alway that the 
cat winked whan her eye was oute.' Surelye 
so is it not for nought that the English Byble 
is in so few mens handes, whan so many 
woulde so fayne have it." "That is very 
trouth," quod I; "for I thinke that though 
the favourers of a secte of heretikes be so fer- 
vent in the setting furth of their secte, that 
they let ° not to lay their money together and 
make a purse among them, for the printyng of 
an evill made, or evil translated booke : 
which though it happe to be forboden ^ and 
burned, yet some be sold ere they be spyed, 

* alleged ^ know ' weened, thought * This word 
is the subject of remain, as well as a part of the 
phrase in which it stand's; the construction is curious 
but common. ^ hesitate '' forbidden 



and eche of them lese ^ but theyr part : yet I 
thinke ther will no printer lightly ^ be so 
hote ^ to put anye Byble in prynte at hys own 
charge, whereof the losse shoulde lye hole in 
his owne necke, and than * hang upon a dout- 
ful tryal, whether the first copy of hys trans- 
lacion was made before Wickliffes dayes or 
since. For if it were made synce, it must be 
approved before the prynting. 

"And surelye ho we it hathe happed that in 
all this whyle God hath eyther not suffered, or 
not provided that any good verteous man hath 
hadde the mynde in faithful wise to translate 
it, and therupon ether the clergie or, at the 
least wise, some one bishop to approve it, thys 
can I nothing tell. But howesoever it be, I 
have hearde and heare so muche spoken in the 
matter, and so muche doute made therin, that 
peradventure it would let and withdrawe any 
one bishop from the admitting therof , without 
the assent of the remenant. And whereas 
many thinges be laid against it : yet is ther in 
my mind not one thynge that more putteth 
good men of the clergie in doubte to suffer it, 
than thys : that they see sometime much of 
the worse sort more fervent in the calling for 
it, than them whom we find farre better. 
Which maketh them to feare lest such men 
desyre it for no good, and le§t if it wer hadde 
in every mannes hand, there would great peril 
arise, and that sedicious people should doe 
more harme therwith than good and honest 
folke should take fruite thereby. Whiche 
feare I promise you noth3mg feareth me, but 
that whosoever woulde of theyr malice or 
folye take harme of that thing that is of it 
selfe ordeyned to doe al men good, I would 
never for the avoyding of their harme, take 
from other the profit, which they might take, 
and nothing deserve to lese.^ For elles ^ if 
the abuse of a good thing should cause the 
taking away thereof from other that would 
use it well, Christ should hymself never have 
been borne, nor brought hys fayth into the 



lose ^ easily ^ hot, ready •* then ^ else 



95 



96 



WILLIAM TYNDALE 



world, nor God should never have made it 
neither, if he should, for the losse of those 
that would be damned wretches, have kept 
away the occasion of reward from them that 
would with helpe of his grace endevor them to 
deserve it." 

"I am sure," quod your frend, "ye doubte 
not but that I am full and hole of youre mynde 
in this matter, that the Byble shoulde be in 
oure Englishe tong. But yet that the clergie 
is of the contrary, and would not have it so, 
that appeareth well, in that they suffer it not 
to be so. And over ^ that, I heare in everye 
place almost where I find any learned man of 
them, their mindes all set theron to kepe the 
Scripture from us. And they seke out for 
that parte every rotten reason that they can 
find, and set them furth solemnely to the 
shew, though fyve of those reasons bee not 
woorth a figge. For they begynne as farre as 
our first father Adam, and shew us that his 
wyfe and he fell out of paradise with desyre 
of knowledge and cunning. Nowe if thys 
woulde serve, it must from the knowledge and 
studie of Scripture dryve every man, priest 
and other, lest it drive aU out of paradise. 
Than ^ saye they that God taught his disciples 
many thynges apart, because the people 
should not heare it. And therefore they 
woulde the people should not now be suffered 
to reade all. Yet they say further that it is 
hard to translate the Scripture out of one tong 
into an other, and specially they say into ours, 
which they caU a tong vulgare and barbarous. 
But of aU thing specially they say that Scrip- 
ture is the foode of the soule. And that the 
comen people be as infantes that must be 
fedde but with milke and pappe. And if we 
have anye stronger meate, it must be 
chammed^ afore by the nurse, and so putte 
into the babes mouthe. But me-think though 
they make us al infantes, they shall fynde 
many a shrewde brayn among us, that can 
perceive chalke fro chese well ynough, and if 
they woulde once take ^ us our meate in our 
own hand, we be not so evil-tothed ^ but that 
within a while they shall see us cham it our 
self as weU as they. For let them call us 
yong babes and *^ they wil, yet, by God, they 
shal for al that well fynde in some of us that 
an olde knave is no chylde." 

^ besides ^ then ^ masticated * deliver ^ ill- 
toothed ^ if 



WILLIAM TYNDALE (d. 1536) 

THE GOSPELL OF S. MATHEW. THE 
FYFTH CHAPTER 

When he sawe the people, he went up into a 
mountaine, and wen he was sett, hys disciples 
cam unto him, and he opened his mouth, and 
taught them sayinge : "Blessed are the poure 
in sprete : for thers is the kyngdom of heven. 
Blessed are they that mourne : for they shalbe 
comforted. Blessed are the meke : for they 
shall inheret the erthe. Blessed are they 
which hunger and thurst for rightewesnes : for 
they shalbe fylled. Blessed are the mercy- 
full : for they shall obteyne mercy. Blessed 
are the pure in hert : for they shall se God. 
Blessed are the maynteyners of peace : for 
they shalbe called the chyldren of God. 
Blessed are they which suffre persecucion for 
rightewesnes sake : ' for thers is the kyngdom 
of heven. Blessed are ye when men shall 
revyle you, and persecute you, and shal 
falsly saye all manner of evle sayinges agaynst 
you for my sake. Re Joyce and be gladde, 
for greate is youre rewarde in heven. For so 
persecuted they the prophettes which were 
before youre dayes. 

"Ye are the salt of the erthe, but ah ! yf the 
salte be once unsavery, what can be salted 
there-with ? it is thence-forthe good for noth- 
ynge, but to be cast out at the dores, and that 
men treade it under fete. Ye are the light of 
the worlde. A cite that is sett on an hill 
cannot be hyd, nether do men light a candle 
and put it under a busshell, but on a candel- 
stycke, and it lighteth aU those which are in 
the housse. Se that youre light so schyne 
before men, that they maye se youre good 
werkes, and gloryfie youre Father, which is 
in heven. 

"Ye shall not thynke, that y am come to 
disanull the lawe other ^ the prophettes : no, y 
am not come to dysanuU them, but to fulfyll 
them. For truely y say unto 3'ou, tyll heven 
and erthe perysshe, one jott, or one tytle of 
the lawe shall not scape, tyll all be fulfylled. 

"Whosoever breaketh one of these leest 
commaundmentes, and shall teche men so, he 
shalbe called the leest in the kyngdom of 
heven. But whosoever shall observe and 
t cache them, that persone shalbe called greate 
in the kyngdom of heven. 



THE GOSPELL OF S. MATHEW 



97 



"For I say unto you, except youre righte- 
wesnes excede the rightewesnes of the scrybes 
and pharyses, ye cannot entre into the kyng- 
dom of haven. 

"Ye have herde howe it was sayd unto them 
of the olde tyme. Thou shalt not kyll. 
Whosoever shall kyll, shalbe in daunger of 
judgement. But I say unto you, whosoever 
ys angre with hys brother, shalbe in daunger 
of judgement. Whosoever shall say unto his 
brother, Racha ! shalbe in daunger of a 
counseiU. But whosoever shall say unto his 
brother, Thou fole ! shalbe in daunger of hell 
fyre. Therfore when thou offerest thy gyfte 
att the altre, and there remembrest that thy 
brother hath eny thynge" agaynst the : leve 
there thyne offrynge before the altre, and go 
thy waye fyrst and reconcyle thy silff to thy 
brother, and then come and offre thy gyfte. 

"Agre with thine adversary at once, whyles 
thou arte in the waye with hym, lest thine 
adversary delivre the to the judge, and the 
judge delyvre the to the minister, ^ and then 
thou be cast into preson. I say unto the 
verely : thou shalt not come out thence tyll 
thou have payed the utmoost forthynge.^ 

"Ye have herde howe yt was sayde to them 
of olde tyme, thou shalt not commytt ad- 
voutrie.^ But I say unto you, that whoso- 
ever eyeth a wyfe, lustynge after her, hathe 
commytted advoutrie with her alredy in his 
hert. 

"Wherfore yf thy right eye offende the, 
plucke hym out and caste him from the, 
Better hit is for the, that one of thy membres 
perysshe then that thy whole body shuld be 
caste in to heU. Also yf thy right honde 
offend the, cutt hym of and caste hym from 
the. Better hit is that one of thy membres 
perisshe, then that all thy body shulde be 
caste in to hell. 

"Hit ys sayd, whosoever put •* awaye his 
wyfe, let hym geve her a testymonyall of her 
divorcement. But I say unto you : whoso- 
ever put '' awaye hys wyfe (except hit be for 
fornicacion) causeth her to breake matrimony, 
And who soever maryeth her that is divorsed, 
breaketh wedlocke. 

"Agayne ye have herde, howe it was said 
to them of olde tyme, thou shalt not forswere 
thysilfe, but shalt performe thine othe to God. 
But I saye unto you swere not at all : nether 
by heven, for hit ys Goddes seate : nor yet by 



the erth, For it is hys fote stole : Nether by 
Jerusalem, for it is the cite of the greate kynge : 
Nether shalt thou swere by thy heed, because 
thou canst not make one heer whyte, or 
blacke: But youre communicacion shalbe, 
ye, ye: nay, nay. For whatsoever is more 
then that, commeth of evle. 

"Ye have herde howe it is sayd, an eye for 
an eye : a tothe for a tothe. But I say unto 
you, that ye withstond ^ not wronge : But yf 
a man geve the a blowe on thy right cheke, 
turne to hym the othre. And yf eny man wyll 
sue the at the lawe, and take thi coote from 
the, lett hym have thi clooke also. And 
whosoever wyll compell the to goo a myle, 
goo wyth him twayne. Geve to him that 
axeth : and from him that wolde borrowe 
turne not away. 

" Ye have herde howe it is saide : thou shalt 
love thyne neghbour, and hate thyne enemy. 
But y saye unto you, love youre enemies. 
Blesse them that cursse you. Doo good to 
them that hate you, Praye for them which doo 
you wronge, and persecute you, that ye maye 
be the chyldren of youre hevenly Father : for 
he maketh his sunne to aryse on the evle and 
on the good, and sendeth his reyne on the 
juste and on the onjuste. For if ye shall love 
them, which love you : what rewarde shall ye 
have? Doo not the publicans even so? 
And if ye be frendly to youre brethren only : 
what singuler thynge doo ye ? Doo nott the 
publicans lyke wyse? Ye shall therfore be 
perfecte, even as youre hevenly Father is 
perfecte." 

SIR THOMAS WYATT (i 503-1 542) 

THE DESERTED LOVER CONSOLETH 
HIMSELF WITH REMEMBRANCE 
THAT ALL WOMEN ARE BY 
NATURE FICKLE 

Divers doth use,- as I have heard and know. 
When that to change their ladies do begin. 
To mourn, and wail, and never for to lynn ; ^ 
Hoping thereby to 'pease their painful woe. 
And some there be that when it chanceth so 
That women change, and hate where love 

hath been. 
They call them false, and think with words 

to win 



oflScer ^ farthing ^ adultery •* puts 



resist ^ many are accustomed ^ cease 



98 



SIR THOMAS WYATT 



The hearts of them which otherwhere doth 

grow.i 
But as for me, though that by chance mdeed 
Change hath outworn the favour that I had, 
I will not wail, lament, nor yet be sad, ii 
Nor call her false that falsely did me feed ; 
But let it pass, and think it is of kind ^ 
That often change doth please a woman's 

mind. 



To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon ; 
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, 
And wish and want, as I have done. 

Now cease, my lute, this is the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste, 
And ended is that w^e begun. 
Now is this song both sung and past, 
My lute, be stiU, for I have done. 40 



THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE 
UNKINDNESS OF HIS LOVE 

My lute, awake, perform the last 
Labour that thou and I shall waste,^ 
And end that I have now begun. 
And when this song is sung and past,, 
My lute, be still, for I have done. 

iVs to be heard v/here ear is none, 
As lead to grave ■'- in marble stone, 
My song may pierce her heart as soon. 
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan ? 
No, no, my lute, for I have done. 10 

The rocks do not so cruelly 
Repulse the waves continually. 
As she my suit and affection ; 
So that I am past remedy. 
Whereby my lute and I have done. 

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got 
Of simple hearts through Loves shot, 
By whom unkind thou hast them won. 
Think not he hath his bow forgot, 
Although my lute and I have done. 20 

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdam 
That makest but game on earnest pain. 
Think not alone under the sun 
Unquit ^ to cause thy lovers plain,'^ 
Although my lute and I have done. 

May chance thee lie withered and old 
In winter nights that are so cold. 
Plaining in vain unto the moon ; 
Thy wishes then dare not be told. 
Cafe then who Ust,- for I have done. 30 

And then may chance thee to repent 
The time that thou hast lost and spent 

^ grow, adhere, to others - of nature, natural 
' spend * engrave ^ unpunished •* complain 



A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS 
HE WOULD LOVE 

A face that should content me wondrous well, 
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold. 
Of lively look, all grief for to repeil. 
With right good grace, so would I that it 

should 
Speak without word, such words as none can 

tell; 
The tress also should be of crisped gold. 
With wit and these perchance I might be 

tried, 
And knit again with knot that should not 

slide. 

OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE 
WRITTEN TO JOHN POINS 

My mother's maids, when they did sew and 

spin, 
They sang sometime a song of the field mouse 
That, for because her liveliliood v/as but thin, 
Would needs go seek her townish sister's 

house. 
She thought herself endured too much pain ; 
The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse 
That when the furrows swimmed with the 

rain. 
She must lie cold and wet in sorry plight ; 
And worse than that, bare meat there did 

remain 
To comfort her when she her house had 

dight ; 10 

Sometime a barly corn ; sometime a bean. 
For which she laboured hard both day and 

night 
In harvest time whilst she might go and glean ; 
And where store ^ was stroyed - with the liood, 
Then welaway ! for she undone was clean. 
Then was she fain to take instead of food 
Sleep, if she might, her himger to beguile. 

^ abundance - destroyed 



OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE 



99 



"My sister," quoth she, "hath a hving 
good, 
And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile. 
In cold and storm she Heth warm and dry 20 
In bed of down, the dirt doth not defile 
Her tender foot, she laboureth not as I. 
Richly she feedeth and at the richman's cost, 
And for her meat she needs not crave nor cry. 
By sea, by land, of the delicates, the most 
Her cater ^ seeks and spareth for no peril. 
She feedeth on boiled bacon, meat and roast. 
And hath thereof neither charge nor travail ; 
And when she list, the liquor of the grape 
Doth glad her heart till that her belly swell." 
And at this journey she maketh but a 
jape ; 2 36 

So forth she goeth, trusting of all this wealth 
With her sister her part so for to shape, 
That if she might keep herself in health, 
To live a lady while her life doth last. 

And to the door now is she come by stealth, 
And with her foot anon she scrapeth full fast. 
Th' other for fear durst not well scarce ap- 
pear. 
Of every noise so was the wretch aghast. 
At last she asked softly who was there, 40 
And in her language as well as she could. 
"Peep!" quoth the other sister, "I am 

here." 
"Peace," quoth the town mouse, "why 

speakest thou so loud?" 
And by the hand she took her fair and well. 
"Welcome," quoth she, "my sister, by the 
Rood!" 
She feasted her, that joy it was to tell 
The fare they had; they drank the wine so 

clear. 
And as to purpose now and then it fell, 
She cheered her with "Ho, sister, what 
cheer !" 
Amid this joy befell a sorry chance, 50 

That, welaway ! the stranger bought full dear 
The fare she had, for, as she looks askance, 
Under a stool she spied two steaming •'' eyes 
In a round head with sharp ears. In France 
Was never mouse so fear'd, for, though un- 
wise 
Had not i-seen such a beast before, 
Yet had nature taught her after her guise ■• 
To know her foe and dread him evermore. 
The towney mouse fled, she knew whither to 

go; 
Th' other had no shift, but wanders sore 60 



Feard of her life. At home she wished her 

tho,i 
And to the door, alas ! as she did skip, 
The Heaven it would, lo ! and eke her chance 

was so. 
At the threshold her silly foot did trip ; 
And ere she might recover it again, 
The traitor cat had caught her by the hip, 
And made her there against her will remain, 
That had forgotten her poor surety and rest 
For seeming wealth wherein she thought to 

reign. 
Alas, my Poines, how men do seek the best 70 
And find the worst by error as they stray ! 
And no marvel ; when sight is so oppressed. 
And blind the guide, anon out of the way 
Goeth guide and all in seeking quiet life. 
O wretched minds, there is no gold that may 
Grant that ye seek ; no war ; no peace ; no 

strife. 
No, no, although thy head were hooped with 

gold, 
Sergeant with mace, halberd, sv/ord nor knife, 
Cannot repulse the care that follow should. 
Each kind of life hath with him his disease. 
Live in delight even as thy lust would,'^ 81 
And thou shalt find, when lust doth most 

thee please. 
It irketh straight, and by itself doth fade. 
A small thing it is that may thy mind appease. 
None of ye all there is that is so mad 
To seek grapes upon brambles or briars ; 
Nor none, I trow, that hath his wit so bad 
To set his hay ^ for conies - over rivers, 
Nor ye set not a drag net for an hare ; 
And yet the thing that most is your desire 90 
Ye do mistake with more travail and care. 
Make plain thine heart, that it be not knotted 
With hope or dread, and see thy will be bare 
From all effects whom vice hath ever spotted. 
Thyself content with that is thee assigned, 
And use it well that is to thee allotted. 
Then seek no more out of thyself to find 
The thing that thou hast sought so long be- 
fore. 
For thou shalt feel it sitting in thy mind. 
IMad, if ye list to continue your sore, 100 

Let present pass and gape on time to come. 
And dip yourself in travail more and more. 
Henceforth, my Poines, this shall be all 

and some. 
These wretched fools shall have nought else of 



^ caterer ^ jest ' gleaming * manner, way 



^ then 2 desire, wish ^ snare * rabbits 



lOO 



HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY 



But to the great God and to his high dome, 
None other pain pray I for them to be, 
But when the rage doth lead them from the 

right, 
That, looking backward, virtue they may see, 
Even as she is so goodly fair and bright, 
And whilst they clasp their lusts in arms 

across, no 

Grant them, good Lord, as Thou mayst of 

Thy might, 
To fret inward for losing such a loss. 

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF 
SURREY (1517?-! 547) 

DESCRIPTION OF SPRING, WHEREIN 

EACH THING RENEWS, SAVE 

ONLY THE LOVER 

The soote ^ season that bud and bloom forth 

brings 
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale ; 
The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 
The turtle ^ to her make ^ hath told her tale : 
Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; 
The hart hath hung his old head * on the 

pale ; ^ 
The buck in brake his winter cote he iiings; 
The fishes flete ^ with new repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she slmgs ; 
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;io 
The busy bee her honey now she mingsJ 
Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale : ^ 
And thus I see among these pleasant things 
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs! 

COMPLAINT OF A LOVER REBUKED 

Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought, 
That built his seat within my captive breast, 
Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought, 
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest. 
She that me taught to love and suffer pain, 
My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire 
With shamefast cloak to shadow and refrain, 
Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire. 
The coward Love then to the heart apace 
Taketh his flight, whereas he lurks and 
plains,^ 10 

His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. 

^ sweet ^ turtle dove ^ mate '' horns ^ paling 
" float ^ mixes ** destruction '•• laments 



For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains. 
Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove ; 
Sweet is his death that takes his end by love. 

DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS 
LOVE GERALDINE 

From Tuscan came my lady's worthy race ; 
Fair Florence was sometime her ancient seat ; 
The Western isle whose pleasant shore doth 

face 
Wild Camber's cliffs did give her lively heat ; 
Fostered she was with milk of Irish 'breast ; 
Her sire, an earl ; her dame, of princes' 

blood ; 
From tender years in Britain she doth rest, 
With a king's child, where she tasteth costly 

food; 
Hunsdon did first present her to mine eyes ; 
Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight ; ^ 
Hampton me taught to wish her first for 

mine ; 1 1 

And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her 

sight : 
Her beauty of kind,^ her virtues from above. 
Happy is he, that can obtain her love ! 

THE MEANS TO ATTAIN A HAPPY 
LIFE 

Martial, the things that do attain 

The happy life be these, I find : 

The riches left,^ not got with pain ; 

The fruitful ground ; the quiet mind ; 

The egall "* friend ; no grudge, no strife ; 

No charge of rule, no governance ; 

Without disease, the healthful life ; 

The household of continuance ; 

The mean ^ diet, no delicate fare ; 

True wisdom joined with simpleness ; 10 

The night discharged of all care, 

Where wine the wit may not oppress ; 

The faithful wife, without debate ; 

Such sleeps as may beguile the night : 

Contented with thine own estate, 

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 

\TRGIL'S ^NEID 

BOOK II 

They whisted ^ all, with fixed face attent, 
When Prince ^neas from the royal seat 

^ is named ^ from nature ^ inherited * equal 
^ moderate *" became silent 



VIRGIL'S ^NEID 



lOI 



Thus "gan to speak : "O Queen, it is thy will 
I should renew a woe cannot be told ; 
How that the Greeks did spoil and overthrow 
The Phrygian wealth and wailful ^ realm of 

Troy. 
Those ruthful things that I myself beheld, 
i.-\nd whereof no small part fell to my share ; 
Which to express, who could refrain from 

tears ? 
What Myrmidon? or yet what Dolopes? lo 
What stern Ulysses' waged soldier? 
And lo ! moist night now from the welkin 

falls, 
And stars declining counsel us to rest ; 
But since so great is thy delight to hear 
Of our mishaps and Tro3^es last decay, 
Though to record the same my mind abhors 
And plaint eschews, yet thus will I begin : — - 
The Greekes chieftains, all irked with the war. 
Wherein they wasted had so many years. 
And oft repulsed by fatal destiny, 20 

A huge horse made, high raised like a hill. 
By the divine science of Minerva, — 
Of cloven fir compacted were his ribs, — 
For their return a feigned sacrifice, — • 
The fame whereof so wandered it at point.- 
In the dark bulk they closed bodies of men 
Chosen by lot, and did enstuff by stealth 
The hollow womb with armed soldiers. 

There stands in sight an isle hight Tenedon, 
Rich and of fame while Priam's kingdom stood, 
Now but a bay and road unsure for ship. 31 
Hither them secretly the Greeks withdrew. 
Shrouding themselves under the desert shore ; 
And, weening Ave they had been fled and gone. 
And with that wind had fet^ the land of Greece, 
Troy discharged her long continued dole.* 
The gates cast up, we issued out to play, 
The Greekish camp desirous to behold, 
The places void and the forsaken coasts. 
Here Pyrrhus' band, there fierce Achilles 

pight ; ^ 
Here rode their ships, there did their battles 

join. 
Astonied some the scathful •" gift beheld, 42 
Behight ^ by vow unto the chaste Mincrve, — 
All wondering at the hugeness of the horse. 
And first of all Timoetes gan advise 
Within the walls to lead and draw the same, 
And place it eke amid the palace court, — 
Whether of guile, or Troyes fate it would. 
Capys, with some of judgment more discreet, 

^ lamentable ^ conformably ' fetched, reached 
^ sorrow ° camped, lendcbal ^ harmful ^ promised 



Willed it to drown, or underset with flame, 50 
The suspect present of the Greek's deceit. 
Or bore and gauge the hollow caves uncouth ; 
So diverse ran the giddy people's mind. 

Lo ! foremost of a route that followed him. 
Kindled ^ Laocoon hasted from, the tower. 
Crying far off : ' O wretched citizens. 
What so great kind of frenzy freteth you? 
Deem ye the Greeks, our enemies, to be gone? 
Or any Greekish gifts can you suppose 
Devoid of guile? Is so Ulysses known? 60 
Either the Greeks are in this timber hid, 
Or this an engine is to annoy ^ our walls, 
To view our towers, and overwhelm our town. 
Here lurks some craft. Good Troj^ans give 

no trust 
Unto this horse, for, whatsoever it be, 
I dread the Greeks, yea when they offer gifts.' " 



ROGER ASCHAM (1515-1568) 
THE SCHOLEMASTER" 

From THE FIRST BOOKE FOR THE 
YOUTH 



If your scholer do misse sometimes, in 
marking rightlie these foresaid sixe thinges, 
chide not hastelie : for that shall, both dull his 
witte, and discorage his diligence : but monish 
him gentelie : which shall make him, both will- 
ing to amende, and glad to go forward in love 
and hope of learning. I have now wished, 
twise or thrise, this gentle nature, to be in a 
Scholemaster : And, that I have done so, 
neither by chance, nor without some reason, 
I will now declare at large, why, in mine opin- 
ion, love is fitter then feare, gentlenes better 
than beating, to bring up a childe rightlie in 
learn inge. 

With the common use of teaching and beat- 
ing in common scholes of England, I will not 
greatlie contend : which if I did, it were but a 
small grammaticall controversie, neither be- 
longing to heresie nor treason,^ nor greatly 
touching God nor the Prince : although in 
very deede, in the end, the good or ill bringing 
up of children, doth as much serve to the good 
or ill service, of God, our Prince, and our 
whole countrie, as any one thing doth beside. 

^ excited " injure •* This Is a proverbial expression. 



I02 



ROGER ASCHAM 



I do gladlie agree with all good Schole- 
masters in these pointes : to have children 
brought to a good perntnes in learning : to all 
honestie in maners : to have all fautes ^ rightlie 
amended: to have everie vice severelie cor- 
f ected : but for the order and waie that lead- 
eth rightlie to these pointes, we somewhat 
differ. For commonlie, many scholemasters, 
some, as I have seen, moe,^ as I have heard 
tell, be of so crooked a nature, as, when they 
meete with a hard witted scholer, they rather 
breake him than bowe him, rather marre him 
then mend him. For whan the scholemaster 
is angrie with some other matter, then will he 
sonest faul to beate his scholer : and though 
he him selfe should be punished for his folic, 
yet must he beate some scholer for his plea- 
sure : though there be no cause for him to do 
so, nor yet fault in the scholer to deserve so. 
These, ye will say, be fond ^ scholemasters, 
and fewe they be that be found to be soch. 
They be fond in deede, but surelie overmany 
soch be found everie where. But this will I 
say, that 'even the wisest of your great beaters, 
do as oft punishe nature as they do correcte 
faultes. Yea, many times, the better nature 
is sorer punished : For, if one, by quicknes of 
witte, take his lesson readelie, an other, by 
hardnes of witte, taketh it not' so speedelie: 
the first is alwaies commended, the other is 
commonlie punished : whan a wise schole- 
master should rather discretelie consider the 
right disposition of both their natures, and 
not so moch wey ^ what either of them is able 
to do now, as what either of them islikehcto 
do hereafter. For this I know, not onelie by 
reading of bookes in my studie, but also by 
experience of life, abrode in the world, that 
those which be commonlie the wisest, the best 
learned, and best men also, when they be olde, 
were never commonlie the quickest of witte, 
when they were yonge. The causes why, 
amongst other, which be many, that move 
me thus to thinke, be these fewe, which I will 
recken. Quicke wittes, commonlie, be apte 
to take, unapte to keepe : soone bote and 
desirous of this and that : as colde and sone 
wery of the same againe : more quicke to enter 
spedclie, than hable ^ to pearse " farre : even 
like over sharpe tooles, whose edges be verie 
soone turned. Soch wittes delite them selves 
in easie and pleasant studies, and never passe 
farre forward in hie and hard sciences. And 



therefore the quickest wittes commonlie may 
prove the best Poetes, but not the wisest 
Orators : readie of tonge to speake boldlie, 
not deepe of judgement, either for good counsel 
or wise writing. Also, for maners and life, 
quicke v\^ittes, commonlie, be, in desire, new- 
fangle,^ in purpose unconstant, hght to prom- 
ise any thing, readie to forget every thing: 
both benefite and injurie : and thereby neither 
fast to frend, nor fearefuU to foe : inquisitive 
of every trifle, not secret in greatest affaires : 
bolde, with any person : busie, in every matter : 
sothing ^ soch as be present : nipping any that 
is absent : of nature also, alwaies, flattering 
their betters, envying their equals, despising 
their inferiors: and, by quicknes of witte, 
verie quicke and readie, to like none so well as 
them selves. 

Moreover commonlie, men, very quicke of 
witte, be also, verie light of conditions : ' 
and thereby, very readie of disposition, to be 
caried over quicklie, by any light cumpanie 
to any riot and unthriftiness, when they be 
yonge : and therfore seldome, either honest 
of life, or riche in living, when they be olde. 
For, quicke in witte and light in maners, 
be, either seldome troubled, or verie sone wery, 
in carying a verie hevie purse. Quicke wittes 
also be, in most part of all their doinges, over- 
quicke, hastie, rashe, headie, and brainsicke. 
These two last wordes, Headie, and Brain- 
sicke, be fitte and proper wordes, rising nat- 
urallie of the matter, and tearmed aptlie by 
the condition, of over moch quickenes of witte. 
In yougthe also they be readie scoffers, privie 
mockers, and ever over light and mery. 
In aige, sone testie, very waspishe, and alwaies 
over miserable : and yet fewe of them cum to 
any great aige, by reason of their misordered 
life when they were yong : but a great deale 
fewer of them cum to shewe any great counte- 
nance, or beare any great authoritie abrode in 
the world, but either live obscurelie, men know 
not how, or dye obscurelie, men marke not 
whan. They be like trees, that shewe forth 
faire blossoms and broad leaves in spring time, 
but bring out small and not long lasting fruite 
in harvest time : and that, onelie soch as fall 
and rotte before they be ripe, and so, never, or 
seldome, cum to any good at all. For this ye 
shall finde most true by experience, that 
amongest a number of quicke wittes in j'-outhe, 
fewe be found, in the end, cither verie fortu- 



^ faults ^ more ^ foolish * weigh ^ able ® pierce ^ fond of novelty ^ agreeing with ^ character 



JOHN FOXE 



103 



nate for them selves, or verie profitable to 
serve the common wealth, but decay and 
vanish, men know not which way: except a 
very fewe, to whom peradventure blood and 
happie parentage may perchance purchace a 
long standing upon the stage. The which 
felicitie, because it commeth by others pro- 
curing, not by their owne deservinge, and 
stand by other mens feete, and not by 
their own, what owtward brag so ever is borne 
by them, is in deed, of it selfe, and in wise 
mens eyes, of no great estimation. 



JOHN FOXE (15 1 6-1 587) 

ACTS AND MONUMENTS OF THESE 
LATTER AND PERILLOUS DAYES 

From THE BEILWIOUR OF DR. RIDLEY 

AND MASTER LATIMER AT THE 

TIME OF THEIR DEATH 



Incontinently ^ they were commanded to 
make them readie, which they with all meek- 
nesse obeyed. Master Ridley tooke his gowaie 
and his tippet, and gave it to his brother-in- 
lawe Master Shepside, who all his time of im- 
prisonment, although he might not be suffered 
to come to him, lay there at his owne charges 
to provide him necessaries, which from time to 
time he sent him by the sergeant that kept 
him. Some other of his apparel that was little 
worth, hee gave away ; other the bailiff es 
took. He gave away besides divers other 
small things to gentlemen standing by, and 
divers of them pitifuUie weeping, as to Sir 
Henry Lea he gave a new groat ; and to divers 
of my Lord Williams gentlemen some napkins, 
some nutraegges, and races ^ of ginger ; his 
diaU, and such other things as he had about 
him, to every one that stood next him. Some 
plucked the pointes of his hose. Happie was 
he that might get any ragge of him. Master 
Latimer gave nothing, but very quickly 
suffered his keeper to pull off his hose, and his 
other array, which to look unto was very 
simple : and being stripped into his shrowd,^ 
hee seemed as comly a person to them that 
were there present as one should lightly see ; 



and whereas in his clothes hee appeared a 
withered and crooked sillie olde man, he now 
stood bolt upright, as comely a father as one 
might lightly behold. 

Then Master Ridley, standing as yet in his 
trusse,^ said to his brother : "It were best for 
me to go in mj'' trusse still." "No," quoth his 
brother, "it will put you to more paine: and 
the trusse will do a poore man good. " Where- 
unto Master Ridley said : "Be it, in the name 
of God;" and so unlaced himself e. Then 
being in his shirt, he stood upon the foresaid 
stone, and held up his hande and said: "O 
heavenly Father, I give unto thee most heartie 
thanks, for that thou hast called mee to be a 
professour of thee, even unto death. I be- 
seech thee. Lord God, take mercie upon this 
realme of England, and deliver the same from 
all her enemies." 

Then the smith took a chaine of iron, and 
brought the same about both Dr. Ridleyes and 
Maister Latimers middles ; and as he was 
knocking in a staple, Dr. Ridley tooke the 
chaine in his hand, and shaked the same, for 
it did girde in his bell)^, and looking aside to the 
smith, said : " Good fellow, knocke it in hard, 
for the flesh will have his course." Then his 
brother did bringe him gunnepowder in a bag, 
and would have tied the same about his necke. 
Master Ridley asked what it was. His 
brother said, "Gunnepowder." "Then," 
sayd he, "I take it to be sent of God ; there- 
fore I will receive it as sent of him. And have 
you any," sayd he, "for my brother?" mean- 
ing Master Latimer. "Yea, sir, that I have," 
quoth his brother. "Then give it unto him," 
sayd hee, "betime; ^ least ye come too late." 
So his brother went, and caried of the same 
gunnepowder unto Maister Latimer. 

In the mean time Dr. Ridley spake unto my 
Lord Williams, and saide: "My lord, I must 
be a suter unto 3'^our lordshippe in the behalfe 
of divers poore men, and speciaUie in the cause 
of my poor sister ; I have made a supplication 
to the Queenes Majestic in their behalves. I 
beseech your lordship for Christs sake, to be a 
mean to her Grace for them. My brother 
here hath the supphcation, and will resort to 
your lordshippe to certifie you herof. There 
is nothing in all the world that troubleth my 
conscience, I praise God, this only excepted. 
Whiles I was in the see of London divers poore 
men tooke leases of me, and agreed with me for 



immediately 



■ roots 



shirt 



^ a padded jacket * early 



I04 



JOHN FOXE 



the same. Nov/ I heare say the bishop that 
now occupieth the same roome will not allow 
my grants unto them made, but contrarie unto 
all lawe and conscience hath taken from them 
their livings, and will not suffer them to injoy 
the same. I beseech you, my lord, be a meane 
for them ; you shall do a good deed, and God 
wUl reward you." 

Then they brought a faggotte, kindled with 
fire, and laid the same downe at Dr. Ridleys 
feete. To whome Master Latimer spake in 
this manner: "Bee of good comfort, Master 
Ridley, and play the man. Wee shall this 
day light such a candle, by Gods grace, in 
England, as I trust shall never bee putte out." 

And so the fire being given unto them, when 
Dr. Ridley saw the fire flaming up towards 
him, he cried with a wonderful lowd voice : 
"In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum 
meum : Domine, recipe spiritum meum." 
And after, repeated this latter part often in Eng- 
lish, "Lord, Lord, receive my spirit ;" Master 
Latimer crying as vehementlie on the other 
side, "O Father of heaven, receive my soule ! " 
who received the flame as it were imbracing of 
it. After that he had stroaked his face with 
his hands, and as it were bathed them a little 
in the fire, he soone died (as it appeared) with 
verie little paine or none. And thus much 
concerning the end of this olde and blessed 
servant of God, Master Latimer, for whose 
laborious travailes,^ fruitfull life, and constant 
death the whole realme hath cause to give 
great thanks to almightie God. 

But Master Ridley, by reason of the evill 
making of the fire unto him, because the 
wooden faggots were laide about the gosse ^ 
and over-high built, the fire burned first be- 
neath, being kept downe by the wood ; which 
when he felt, hee desired them for Christes 
sake to let the fire come unto him. Which 
when his brother-in-law heard, but not well 
understood, intending to rid him out of his 
paine (for the which cause hee gave attend- 
ance) , as one in such sorrow not well advised 
what hee did, heaped faggots upon him, so that 
he cleane covered him, which made the fire 
more vehement beneath, that it burned cleane 
all his neather parts, before it once touched the 
upper ; and that made him leape up and 
down under the faggots, and often desire them 
to let the fire come unto him, saying, "I can- 
not burne." Which indeed appeared well; 

^ labors ^ gorse, furze 



for, after his legges were consumed by reason 
of his struggling through the paine (whereof hee 
had no release, but onelie his contentation in 
God), he showed that side toward us cleane, 
shirt and all untouched with flame. Yet in 
all this torment he forgate not to call unto 
God still, having in his mouth, "Lord have 
mercy upon me," intermedling ^ this cry, 
"Let the fire come unto me, I cannot burne." 
In which paines he laboured till one. of the 
standers by with his bill ^ pulled off the fag- 
gots above, and where he saw the fire flame 
up, he wrested himself unto that side. And 
when the flame touched the gunpowder, he 
was seen to stirre no more, but burned on the 
other side, falling downe at Master Latimers 
feete. Which some said happened by reason 
that the chain loosed ; other said that he feU 
over the chain by reason of the poise of his 
body, and the weakness of the neather lims. 

Some said that before he was like to fall 
from the stake, hee desired them to holde him 
to it with their billes. However it was, surelie 
it mooved hundreds to teares, in beholding the 
horrible sight ; for I thinke there was none 
that had not cleane exiled all humanitie and 
mercie, which would not have lamented to 
beholde the furie of the fire so to rage upon 
their bodies. Signes there were of sorrow on 
everie side. Some tooke it greevouslie to see 
their deathes, whose lives they held full deare : 
some pittied their persons, that thought the 
soules had no need thereof. His brother 
mooved many men, seeing his miserable case, 
seeing (I say) him compelled to such inf elicit; e, 
that he thought then to doe him best service 
when he hastned his end. Some cried out of 
the lucke, to see his indevor (who most dearelie 
loved him, and sought his release) turne to his 
greater vexation and increase of paine. But 
whoso considered their preferments in time 
past, the places of honour that they some 
time occupied in this common wealth, the 
favour they were in with their princes, and the 
opinion of learning they had in the university 
where they studied, could not chuse but sor- 
row with teares to see so great dignity, hon- 
our, and estimation, so necessary members 
sometime accounted, so many godly vertues, 
the study of so manie yeres, such excellent 
learning, to be put into the fire and consumed 
in one moment. Well ! dead they are, and 

^ intermingling ^ a kind of weapon consisting 
of a curved blade fixed at the end of a pole. 



THOMAS SACKVILLE 



105 



the reward of this world they have alreadie. 
What reward remaineth for them in heaven, 
the day of the Lords glorie, when hee commeth 
with his saints, shall shortlie, I trust, declare. 

THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD 
BUCKHURST (1536-1608) 

A MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES 

From THE INDUCTION 

Flat down I fell, and with all reverence 

Adored her, perceiving now that she, 

A goddess sent by godly providence, 

In earthly shape thus showed herself to me. 

To wail and rue this world's uncertainty : 1 73 

And while I honored thus her god-head's 

might 
With plaining voice these words to me she 

shright : ^ 

"I shall thee guide first to the griesly^ lake, 
And thence unto the blissful place of rest. 
Where thou shalt see and hear the plaint they 
make, 178 

That whilom here bare swing ^ among the best. 
This shalt thou see, but great is the unrest 
That thou must bide before thou canst attain 
Unto the dreadful place where these remain. 

And with these words as I upraised stood, 
And 'gan to follow her that straightforth 

paced, 
Ere I was ware, into a desert wood 
We now were come ; where, hand in hand em- 
braced. 
She led the way, and through the thick so 

traced, 
As, but I had been guided by her might. 
It was no way for any mortal wight. 189 

But lo ! while thus, amid the desert dark, 
We passed on with steps and pace unmeet, 
A rumbling roar, confused with howl and bark 
Of dogs, shook all the ground under our feet. 
And struck the din within our ears so deep, 
As half distraught unto the ground I fell, 
Besought return, and not to visit hell. 196 

But she forth-with uplifting me apace 
Removed my dread, and with a steadfast mind 



Bade rne come on, for here was now the place, 
The place where we our travel's end should 
find. 200 

Wherewith I arose, and to the place assigned 
Astonied I stalk ; when straight we ap- 
proached near 
The dreadful place, that you will dread to hear. 

An hideous hole all vast, withouten shape, 

Of endless depth, o'erwhelmed with ragged 

stone. 
With ugly mouth and griesly jaws doth gape. 
And to our sight confounds itself in one. 
Here entered we, and yeding ^ forth, anon 
An horrible lothly lake we might discern. 
As black as pitch, that cleped - is Averne. 210 

A deadly gulf where nought but rubbish grows, 
With foul black swelth ^ in thickened lumps 

that lies. 
Which up in the air such stinking vapours 

throws, 
That over there may fly no fowl but dies. 
Choked with the pestilent savours that arise. 
Hither we come, whence forth we still did pace. 
In dreadful fear amid the dreadful place. 217 

And first within the porch and jaws of HeU 
Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent 
With tears : and to herself oft would she tell 
Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent * 
To sob and sigh ; but ever thus lament 
With thoughtful care, as she that all in vain 
Would wear and waste continually in pain. 224 

Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, 
Whirled on each place, as place that vengeance 

brought. 
So was her mind continually in fear. 
Tossed and tormented with the tedious 

thought 
Of those detested crimes which she had 

wrought ; 
With dreadful cheer and looks thrown to the 

sky, 230 

Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. 

Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he 

shook, 
With foot uncertain proffered here and there; 
Benumbed of speech, and with a ghastly look 
Searched every place all pale and dead for 

fear. 



^ shrieked ^ dreadful 



bore sway 



going - called ' scum 



io6 



THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST 



His cap borne up with staring ^ of his hair, 
Stoynd^ and amazed at his own shade for 

dread, 
And fearing greater dangers than was need. 238 

And next within the entry of this lake 
Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire, 
Devising means how she may vengeance take, 
Never in rest till she have her desire ; 
But frets within so farforth ^ with the fire 
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 
To die by Death, or venged by Death to be. 245 

When fell Revenge with bloody foul pretence 
Had shown herself as next in order set. 
With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, 
Till in our eyes another sight we met : 
When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,* 
Rueing, alas ! upon the woeful plight 
Of Misery, that next appeared in sight. 252 

His face was lean, and somedeal pined away, 
And eke his hands consumed to the bone, 
And what his body was I cannot say. 
For on his carcass raiment had he none 
Save clouts and patches, pieced one by one. 
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast. 
His chief defence against the winter's blast. 259 

His food, for most,* was wild fruits of the 

trees, 
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, 
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he. 
As on the which full daintily would he fare ; 
His drink the running stream, his cup the bare 
Of his palm closed, his bed the hard cold 

ground. 
To this poor life was Misery y-bound. 266 

Whose wretched state when we had well 

beheld 
With tender ruth on him and on his feres ^ 
In thoughtful cares, forth then our pace we 

held. 
And by and by, another shape appears 
Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breres,'' 
His knuckles knobbed, his flesh deep dented in. 
With tawed hands, and hard y-tanned skin. 

The morrow gray no sooner hath begun 

To spread his light, even peeping in our eyes, 

When he is up and to his work y-rmi ; 276 

end ^ astounded ' excessively 
ly " companions ^ briars 



^ standing on end ^ astoundec 
* fetched ^ chiefly " companions 



But let the night's black misty mantles rise, 
And with foul dark never so much disguise 
The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, 
But hath his candles to prolong his toil. 280 

By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death 
Flat on the ground, and stfll as any stone, 
A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath. 
Small keep ^ took he whom Fortune frowned 

on 
Or whom she lifted up into the throne 
Of high renown ; but as a living death. 
So dead alive, of life he drew the breath. 287 

The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, 

The travail's ease, the still night's fear was he, 

And of our life in earth the better part. 

Reaver of sight, and yet in whom we see 

Things oft that tide,^ and oft that never be. 

Without respect esteeming equally 

King Cresus' pomp, and Irus' poverty. 294 

And next in order sad Old Age we foiind. 
His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind, 
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground. 
As on the place where nature him assigned 
To rest, when that the Sisters ^ had untwined 
His vital thread, and ended with their knife 
The fleeting course of fast declining life. 301 

There heard we him with broken and hoUow 

plaint 
Rue with himself his end approaching fast, 
And all for nought his wretched mind torment 
With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past. 
And fresh delights of lusty youth forwast.* 
Recounting which, how would he sob and 

shriek. 
And to be young again of Jove beseek ! * 308 

But and " the cruel fates so fixed be 
That time forepast ^ caimot return again. 
This one request of Jove yet prayed he : 
That in such withered plight, and ^^Tetched 

pain 
As Eld, accompanied with his lothsome train. 
Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief. 
He might a while yet hnger forth his life, 315 

And not so soon descend into the pit. 
Where Death, when he the mortal corps hath 
slain, 

^ heed ^ happen ^ the Fates ^ wasted away 
' beseech ® if ^ passed by 



A MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES 



107 



With retchless ^ hand in grave doth cover it, 
Thereafter never to enjoy again 
The gladsome light, but, in the ground y-lain. 
In depth of darkness waste and wear to 

nought, 
As he had never into the world been brought. 

But who had seen him, sobbing how he 
stood 323 

Unto himself, and how he would bemoan 
His youth forepast, as though it wrought him 

good 
To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone,^ 
He would have mused, and marvelled much 
whereon 



This wretched Age should life desire so fain, 
And knows fuU well life doth but length his 
pain. 329 

Crookbacked he was, toothshaken, and blear- 
eyed, 

Went on three feet, and sometime crept on 
four, 

With old lame bones, that rattled by his side, 

His scalp all piled ^ and he with elde forlore ; - 

His withered fist still knocking at death's 
door. 

Fumbling and drivelling as he draws his 
breath, 335 

For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. 



• careless - passed away 



^ bare ^ worn with age 



THE RENAISSANCE 



EDMUND SPENSER (i552?-i599) 

From THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER 

FEBRUARIE 

^GLOGA SeCUNDA 

Cuddie Thenot 

CuDDiE. Ah for pittie, wil rancke Winters 

rage 
These bitter blasts never ginne tasswage ? 
The kene cold blowes through my beaten 

hyde, 
All as I were through the body gryde.^ 
My ragged rontes ^ all shiver and shake, 
As doen high Towers in an earthquake : 
They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle 

tailes, 
Perke ^ as Peacock ; but nowe it avales.^ 
The. Lewdly^ complainest thou, laesie 

ladde, 
Of Winters wracke for making thee sadde. lo 
Must not the world wend in his commun 

course. 
From good to badd, and from badde to worse, 
From worse unto that is worst of all, 
And then returne to his former fall "^ ? 
Who will not suffer the stormy time, 
Where will he live tyll the lusty prime ? 
Selfe have I worne out thrise threttie yeares, 
Some in much ioy, manj^ in many teares, 
Yet never complained of cold nor heate. 
Of Sommers flame, nor of Winters threat : 20 
Ne ever was to Fortune foeman. 
But gently tooke, that ungently came ; 
And ever my flocke was my chiefe care. 
Winter or Sommer they mought well fare. 
Cud. No marveile, Thenot, if thou can 

beare 
CherefuUy the Winters wrathfull chcare ; 
For Age and Winter accord full nie. 
This chill, that cold, this crooked, that wrye ; 

^ pierced ^ young bullocks ^ pert * droops ^ igno- 
rantly ^ condition 



And as the lowring Wether lookes downe, 
So semest thou like good fryday to frowne, 30 
But my flowring youth is foe to frost. 
My shippe unwont in stormes to be tost. 
The. The soveraigne of seas he blames in 

vaine. 
That, once sea-beate, will to sea againe. 
So loytring live you little heardgroomes. 
Keeping your beasts in the budded broomes : 
And when the shining sunne laugheth once, 
You deemen, the Spring is come attonce ; 
Tho gynne^ you, fond flyes, the cold to scorne, 
And crowing in pypes made of greene corne, 40 
You thinken to be Lords of the yeare ; 
But eft,2 when ye count you freed from feare. 
Comes the breme " winter with chamfred * 

browes 
Full of wrinckles and frostie f urrowes : 
Drerily shooting his stormy darte. 
Which cruddles^ the blood, and pricks the 

harte. 
Then is your carelesse corage accoied,^ 
Your carefull heards with colde bene annoied. 
Then paye you the price of your surquedrie,^ 
With weeping, and wayling, and misery. 50 
Cud. Ah foolish old man, I scorne thy skill. 
That wouldest me, my springing youngth to 

spil: 
I deeme thy braine emperished bee 
Through rusty elde, that hath rotted thee : 
Or sicker * thy head veray tottie ^ is. 
So on thy corbe ^^ shoulder it leanes amisse. 
Now thy selfe hast lost both lopp and topp, 
Als " my budding braunch thou wouldest 

cropp : 
But were thy yeares greene, as now bene 

myne, 
To other delights they would encline. 60 

Tho wouldest thou learne to caroll of Love, 
And hery ^- with hymnes thy lasses glove. 
Tho wouldest thou pype of Phyllis prayse : 
But Phyllis is myne for many dayes ; 
I wonne her with a gyrdle of gelt," 



io8 



then begin "^ again, after ^ bitter '' wrinkled 
irdles ^ quieted ' pride * surely ^ unsteady 
rooked ^^ also ^^ praise ^^ gilt 



THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER 



109 



Embost with buegle about the belt. 

Such an one shepeheards woulde make full 

fame, 
Such an one would make thee younge againe. 

The. Thou art a fon ^ of thy love to boste, 
All that is lent to love wyll be lost. 70 

Cud. Seest howe brag- yond Bullocke 
beares, 
So smirke, so smoothe, his pricked eares? 
His homes bene as broade as Rainebowe bent, 
His dewelap as lythe as lasse of Kent, 
See howe he venteth ^ into the wynd. 
Weenest of love is not his mynd ? 
Seemeth thy flocke thy counsell can,'' 
So lustlesse ^ bene they, so weake, so wan. 
Clothed with cold, and hoary wyth frost. 
Thy flocks father his corage hath lost : 80 

Thy Ewes, that w^ont to have blowen ^ bags, 
Like wailefull widdowes hangen their crags ^ : 
The rather ^ lam.bes bene starved with cold. 
All for their INIaister is lustlesse and old. 

The. Cuddie, I wote thou kenst ^ Httle 
good, 
So vainely tadvaunce thy headlesse hood. 
For Youngth is a bubble blown up with 

breath. 
Whose witt is weakenesse, whose v/age is 

death, 
Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne ^^ Pen- 

aunce, 
And stoope gallant Age the hoste of Gree- 

vaunce. 
But shall I tel thee a tale of truth, 91 

Wliich I cond ^^ of Tityrus in my youth. 
Keeping his sheepe on the hils of Kent ? 

Cud. To nought more, Thenot, my mind 
is bent, 
Then to heare novells of his devise : 
They bene so well thewed, and so wise. 
What ever that good old man bespake. 

The. Many meete tales of youth did he 
make, 
And some of love, and some of chcvalrie : 
But none fitter than this to applie. 100 

Now listen a while, and hearken the end. 

There grewe an aged Tree on the greene, 
A goodly Oake sometime had it bene, 
With armes full strong and largely displayd, 
But of their leaves they were disarayde : 
The bodie bigge, and mightely pight,^^ 

^ fool ^ brisk ^ puffs ^ know * without desire 
® full ' necks ^ earlier * knowest ^° inn ^^ learned 
^ firmly set 



Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight : 
Whilome had bene the King of the field. 
And mochell mast ^ to the husband did yielde, 
And with his nuts larded- many swine, no 
But now the gray mosse marred his rine,^ 
His bared boughes were beaten with stormes, 
His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes, 
His honor decayed, his braunches sere. 

Hard by his side grewe a bragging Brere, 
Which prowdly thrust into Thelement, 
And seemed to threat the Firmament. 
Yt was embellisht with blossomes fayre, 
And thereto aye wormed •• to repayre 
The shepheards daughters to gather flowres, 
To peinct their girlonds with his colowres. 121 
And in his small bushes used to shrowde 
The sweete Nightingale singing so lowde : 
Which made this foolish Brere wexe so bold. 
That on a time he cast him ^ to scold 
And snebbe^ the good Oake, for he was old. 

'Why standst there (quoth he), thou brutish 
blocke ? 
'Nor for fruict nor for shadowe serves thy 

stocke. 
' Seest how fresh my flowers bene spredde, 
' Dyed in Lilly white and Cremsin redde, 130 
'With Leaves engrained in lusty greene, 
' Colours meete to clothe a mayden Queene ? 
'Thy wast bignes '^ but combers the grownd, 
'And dirks * the beauty of my blossoms rownd. 
'The mouldie mosse, which thee accloieth,' 
'My Sinamon smell too much annoieth. 
' ^ATierefore soone, I rede ^^ thee, hence remove, 
'Least thou the price of my displeasure prove.' 
So spake this bold brere with great disdaine : 
Little him answered the Oake againe, 140 
But yielded, with shame and greefe adawed," 
That of a weede he was ouerawed. 

Yt chaunced after vpon a day. 
The Hus-bandman selfe to come that way. 
Of custome for to survewe ^^ his grownd, ' 
And his trees of state in compasse rownd. 
Him when the spitefull brere had espyed, 
Causlesse complained, and lowdly cryed 
Unto his Lord, stirring up sterne strife : 

' O my liege Lord ! the God of my hfe, 1 50 
'Pleaseth you ponder your Supphants plaint, 
'Caused of wrong, and cruell constraint, 
' Which I your poore vassall dayly endure : 
'And but your goodnes the same recure,^^ 

^ many acorns ^ fattened ' rind •* were accus- 
tomed "planned ^reprove ^ vast bigness * dark- 
ens ^ encumbers 1" advise "daunted '- look over 
" recover 



no 



EDMUND SPENSER 



' Am like for desperate doole ^ to dye, 
'Through felonous force of mine enemie.' 
Greatly aghast with this piteous plea, 
Him rested the goodman on the lea, 
And badde the Brere in his plaint proceede. 
With painted words tho ^ gan this proude 

weede i6o 

(As most usen Ambitious folke) 
His colowred crime with crafte to cloke. 

'Ah my soveraigne, Lord of creatures aU, 
'Thou placer of plants both humble and taU, 
'Was not I planted of thine owne hand, 
'To be the primrose of aU thy land, 
'With flowring blossomes, to furnish the prime, 
'And scarlet berries in Sommer time? 
'Howe falls it then that this faded Oake, 
' Whose bodie is sere, whose braunches broke, 
'\¥hose naked Armes stretch unto the fyre, 
'Unto such tyrannie doth aspire, 172 

'Hindering with his shade my lovely hght, 
'And robbing me of the swete sonnes sight? 
'So beate his old boughes my tender side, 
'That oft the bloud springeth from wounds 

wyde : 
' Untim.ely my flo\\Tes forced to fall, 
'That bene the honor of your Coronall. 
'And oft he lets his cancker Vv'ormes light 
' Upon my braunches, to worke me more 

spight: 180 

'And oft his hoarie locks downe doth cast, 
'Where with my fresh flowretts bene defast : 
' For this, and many more such outrage, 
' Craving your goodlihead ^ to aswage 
'The ranckorous rigour of his might, 
'Nought aske I, but onely to hold my right : 
' Submitting me to your good sufferance, 
'And praying to be garded from greevance.' 

To this the Oake cast him to replie 
Well as he couth * ; but his enemie igo 

Had kindled such coles of displeasure, 
That the good man noulde ^ stay his leasure, 
But home him hasted with furious heate, 
Encreasing his wrath with many a threate. 
His harmefuU Hatchet he hent ^ in hand, 
(Alas, that it so ready should stand !) 
And to the field alone he speedeth, 
(Ay little helpe to harme there needeth !) 
Anger nould let him speake to the tree, 
Enaunter ^ his rage mought cooled bee ; 200 
But to the roote bent his sturdy stroke, 
And made many wounds in the wast * Oake. 
The Axes edge did oft turne againe, 

^ grief 2 then ^ goodness ^ could ^ would not 
^ seized ' lest perchance * vast 



As halfe unwilling to cutte the graine : 

Semed, the sencelesse yron dyd feare, 

Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare. 

For it had bene an auncient tree. 

Sacred with many a mysteree. 

And often crost with the priestes crewe, 

And often halo wed with holy water dewe. 210 

But sike ^ fancies weren foolerie. 

And broughten this Oake to this miserye. 

For nought mought they quitten him from 

decay : 
For fiercely the good man at him did laye. 
The blocke oft groned under the blow, 
And sighed to see his neare overthrow. 
In fine, the Steele had pierced his pitth : 
Tho 2 downe to the earth he fell forthwith : 
His wonderous weight made the gromide to 

quake, 
Thearth ^ shronke vnder him, and seemed to 

shake. 220 

There lyeth the Oake, pitied of none. 

Now stands the Brere like a Lord alone. 
Puffed up with pryde and vaine pleasaunce. 
But all this glee had no contuauance ; 
For eftsones ** Winter gan to approche, 
The blustering Boreas did encroche. 
And beate upon the soiitarie Brere : 
For nowe no succoure was scene him nere.^ 
Now gan he repent his pryde to late ; 
For naked left and disconsolate, 230 

The byting frost nipt his stalke dead, 
The watrie wette weighed doT\aie his head. 
And heaped snowe burdned him so sore. 
That nowe upright he can stand no more : 
And being downe, is trodde in the durt 
Of catteU, and bronzed, and sorely hurt. 
Such was thend ^ of this .Ambitious brere, 

For scorning Eld 

Cud. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tel it not 

forth : 
Here is a long tale, and little worth. 240 

So longe have I listened to thy speche. 
That graffed to the ground is my breche ; 
My hartblood is welnigh frorne,' I feele. 
And my galage * growne fast to my heele : 
But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted : 
Hye thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh 

wasted. 

Thenots Emblefne 
Iddio, perche e vecchio, 
Fa suoi al suo essempio.^ 

^ such 2 then ' the earth ■* soon again * near 
^ the end "^ frozen * shoe ^ God, because he is 
old, makes his own in his image. 



THE FAERIE QUEENE 



III 



Cuddies Embleme 

Niuno vecchio 

Spaventa Iddio.^ 

THE FAERIE QUEENE 
BOOK I. CANTO I 



A gentle Knight was pricking - on the plaine, 
Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, 
Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did re- 
main e, 
The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ; 
Yet armes till that time did he never wield. 
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, 
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : 
Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, 

As one for knightly giusts ^ and fierce en- 
counters fitt. 

II 

But on his brest a bloodie Crosse he bore, lo 
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge 

he wore, 
And dead, as hving, ever him ador'd : 
Upon his shield the hke was also scor'd, 
For soveraine hope which in his helpe he 

had. 
Right faithfull true he was in deede and 

word ; 
But of his cheere ^ did seeme too solemne 
sad ; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was 
ydrad.^ 

Ill 

Upon a great adventure he was bond,® • 
That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 20 
(That greatest Glorious Queene of Faery 

lond ' ) 
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to 

have, 
Which of all earthly thinges he most did 

crave : 
And ever as he rode his hart did earne ^ 
To prove his puissance in battell brave 
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne, 
Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stcarne. 



^ No greybeard fears God. 
meanor * dreaded ® bound 



-riding 'jousts 
land * yearn 



'de- 



IV 

A lovel}'- Ladie rode him faire beside, 

Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow, 
Yet she much whiter; but the same did 

hide 30 

Under a vele,^ that wimpled ^ was full low ; 
And over all a blacke stole ' shee did throw*: 
As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, 
And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow ; 
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had, 
And by her, in a line,** a milkewhite lambe she 

lad.* 

V 

So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, 
She was in Ufe and every vertuous lore ; 
And by descent from Roy all lynage came 
Of ancient Kinges and Queenes, that had of 

yore 
Their scepters stretcht from East to 

Westerne shore, 41 

And all the world in their subjection held ; 

Till that infernall feend with foule uprore 

Forwasted ® all their land, and them expeld ; 

Whom to avenge she had this Knight from far 

compeld. 

^T 

Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag, 
That lasie seemd, in being ever last, 
Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
Of needments at his backe. Thus as they 

past. 
The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast. 
And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine 
Did poure into his Lemans ^ lap so fast 52 
That everie wight to shrowd ^ it did con- 
strain ; 
And this faire couple eke * to shroud them- 
selves were fain.^" 

\'II 

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide. 
That promist ayde the tempest to with- 
stand ; 
WTiose loftie trees, yclad with sommers 

pride. 
Did spred so broad that heavens light did 
hide, 

^ veil ' folded ' a long outer garment * cord, 
or rope ^led ^devastated ^sweetheart's ( = earth's) 
^ cover * also ^^ glad 



112 



EDMUND SPENSER 



Not perceable with power of any starr : 60 

And all within were pathes and alleles wide, 

With footing worne, and leading inward 

farr. 

Faire harbour that them seemes ; so in they 

entred ar. 



XXIX 

At length they chaunst to meet upon the way 
An aged Sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, 
His feete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray. 
And by his belt his booke he hanging had : 
Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, 
And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, 
Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad ; 
And all the way he prayed as he went, 260 

And often knockt his brest, as one that did re- 
pent. 

XXX 

He faire the knight saluted, louting ^ low. 
Who faire him quited,^ as that courteous 

was; 
And after asked him, if he did know 
Of straunge adventures, which abroad did 
pas. 
"Ah! my dear sonne," (quoth he) "how 
should, alas ! 266 

Silly old man, that lives in hidden cell. 
Bidding his beades all day for his trespas, 
Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell? 
With holy father sits ^ not with such thinges to 
mell." 

XXXI 

"But if of daunger, which hereby doth dwell, 
And homebredd evil ye desire to heare, 
Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell, 
That wasteth all this countrie, farre and 

neare." 
"Of such," (saide he,) "I chiefly doe in- 

quere. 
And shall you well rewarde to shew the 

place 
In which that wicked wight his dayes doth 

weare ; 
For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace, 278 
That such a cursed creature lives so long a 

space." 



xxxn 

"Far hence" (quoth he) "in wastfull wilder- 
nesse 
His dweUing is, by which no living wight 
May ever passe, but thorough ^ great dis- 

tresse." 
"Now," (saide the Ladie,) "draweth to- 
ward night, 
And well I wote, that of your later fight 
Ye aU forwearied be ; for what so strong, 
But, wanting rest, will also want of might? 
The Sunne, that measures heaven all day 
long, 287 

At night doth" baite ^ his steedes the Ocean 
waves emong. 

XXXIII 

"Then with the Simne take. Sir, your timely 

rest. 
And with new day new worke at once 

begin : 
Untroubled night, they say, gives counsell 

best." 
"Right well. Sir knight, ye have advised 

bin." 
Quoth then that aged man: "the way to 

win 
Is wisely to advise ; now day is spent : 
Therefore with me ye may take up your In 
For this same night." The knight was well 

content ; 296 

So with that godly father to his home they 

went. 

XXXIV 

A litle lowly Hermitage it was, 

Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side, 
Far from resort of people that did pas 
In traveill to and froe : a litle wyde 
There was an holy chappeU edifyde,^ 
Wherein the Hermite dewly wont to say 
His holy thinges each morne and even-tyde ; 
Thereby a christall streame did gently play. 

Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth 
alway. " 306 

XXXV 

Arrived there, the litle house they fiU. 

Ne looke for entertainement where none 



^ bowing ^ answered ^ suits ■* meddle 



^ through 



feed 



' built 



THE FAERIE QUEENE 



"3 



Rest is their feast, and all thinges at their 

will. 
The noblest mind the best contentment has. 
With f aire discourse the evening so they pas ; 
For that olde man of pleasing wordes had 

store 
And well could file his tongue as smooth as 

glas: 
He told of Saintes and Popes, and evermore 
He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before. 315 

XXXVI 

The drouping night thus creepeth on them 

fast, 
And the sad humor loading their eyeliddes, 
As messenger of Morpheus,^ on them cast 
Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep 

them biddes. 
Unto their lodgings then his guestes he 

riddes : 
AVhere when all drownd in deadly sleepe he 

findes, 
He to his studie goes ; and there amiddes 
His magick bookes and artes of sundries 

kindes, _ 323 

He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble 

sleepy minds. 

XXXVII 

Then choosing out few words most horrible, 
(Let none them read) thereof did verses 

frame ; 
With which, and other spelles like terrible. 
He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly Dame ; 
And cursed heven; and spake reprochful 

shame 
Of highest God, the Lord of life and light : 
A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name 
Great Gorgon, prince of darknes and dead 

night; 332 

At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to 

flight. 

XXXVIII 

And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd 
Legions of Sprights, the which, like litle 

fives 
Fluttring about his ever-damned hedd, 
Awaite whereto their service he applyes, 
To aide his f riendes, or fray ^ his enimies. 



Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo,. 
And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes : 
The one of them he gave a message too, 341 
The other by him selfe staide, other worke to 
doo. 

XXXIX 

He, making speedy way through spersed^ ayre, 
And through the world of waters wide and 

deepe, 
To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. 
Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe, 
And low, where dawning day doth never 

peepe. 
His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed 
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth 

steepe 
In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, 350 
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black 
doth spred. 

XL 

Whose double gates he findeth locked fast. 
The one faire fram'd of burnisht Yvory, 
The other all with silver overcast ; 
And wakeful dogges before them farre doe 

lye. 
Watching to banish Care their enimy, 
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. 
By them the Sprite doth passe in quietly, 
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned 
deepe 359 

In drowsie fit he findes : of nothing he takes 
keepe.^ 

XLI 

And more, to luUe him in his slumber soft, 
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling 

downe. 
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, 
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like 

the sowne 
Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne. 
No other noyse, nor peoples troublous crj'^es. 
As still are wont t'annoy the walled towne, 
Might there be heard ; but carelesse Quiet 

lyes 368 

Wrapt in eternal! silence farre from enimyes. 

XLII 

The Messenger approching to him spake ; 
But his waste wordes retournd to him in 



^ the god of sleep - frighten 



^ dispersed ^ heed 



114 



EDMUND SPENSER 



So sound he slept that nought mought ^ him 

awake. 
Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with 

paine, 
Whereat he gan to stretch ; but he againe 
Shooke him so hard that forced him to 

speake. 
As one then in a dreame, whose dryer 

braine 
Is tost with troubled sights and fancies 

weake, 
He mumbled soft, but would not all his 

silence breake. 378 

XLIII 

The Sprite then gan more boldly him to wake, 
And threatned unto him the dreaded name 
Of Hecate : whereat he gan to quake, 
And, lifting up his lompish head, with 

blame 
Halfe angrie asked him, for what he came. 
"Hether (quoth he) "me Archimago sent. 
He that the stubborne Sprites can wisely 

tame, 
He bids thee to him send for his intent 386 
A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers 

sent." 



CANTO III 



Nought is there under heav'ns wide hoUow- 

nesse. 
That moves more deare compassion of 

mind. 
Then beautie brought t'unworthie wretched- 

nesse 
Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes 

unkind. 
I, whether lately through her brightnes 

blynd. 
Or through alleageancc and fast fealty, 
Which I do owe unto all womankynd, 
Feele my hart perst with so great agony, 8 
When such I see, that all for pitty I could dy. 

II 

And now it is empassioned so deepe, 
For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, 



That my frayle eies these lines withteares 

do steepe. 
To thinke how she through guyleful han- 

deling. 
Though true as touch, though daughter of a 

king, _ 
Though f aire as ever living wight was fayre. 
Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting, 
Is from her knight divorced in despayre. 
And her dew loves deryv'd to that vUe witches 

shayre. 18 



III 

Yet she, most faithfuU Ladie, ail this while 
Forsaken, wofuU, solitarie mayd. 
Far from all peoples preace,^ as in exile, 
In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd. 
To seeke her knight ; who, subtity betrayd 
Through that late vision which th' En- 

chaunter wrought. 
Had her abandond. She, of nought affrayd, 
Through woods and wastnes wide him daily 

sought; 26 

Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her 

brought. 



IV 

One day, nigh wearie of the yrksome way, 
From her unhastie beaste she did alight ; 
And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay, 
In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight : 
From her fayre head her fillet she imdight. 
And layd her stole aside. Her angels face, 
As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, 
And made a sunshine in the shady place ; 

Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly 
grace. 36 



V 

It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping Lyon rushed suddeinly, 
Hunting full greedy after salvage^ blood. 
Soone as the royall virgin he did spy. 
With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 
To have attonce devourd her tender corse ; 
But to the pray when as he drew more ny. 
His bloody rage aswaged with remorse,^ 44 

And with the sight amazd, forgat his furious 
forse. 



^ might 



^ press, throng ^ savage 



'pity 



EPITHALAMION 



"5 



VI 

In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet, 
And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong, 
As he her wronged mnocence did weet.^ 
O how can beautie maister the most strong, 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
Whose yielded pryde and proud submission. 

Still dreading death, when she had marked 
long, 
Her hart gan melt in great compassion ; 53 

And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. 

From EPITHALAMION 

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes 

Been to me aiding, others to adorn. 

Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful 

rimes, 
That even the greatest did not greatly scorn 
To hear their names sung in your simple lays. 
But joyed in their praise ; 
And when ye list your own mishaps to moUrn, 
Which Death, or Love, or Fortune's wreck did 

raise. 
Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn, 
And teach the woods and waters to lament 
Your doleful dreariment : 11 

Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside; 
And, having all your heads with garlands 

crowned. 
Help me mine own love's praises to resound; 
Ne let the same of any be envied ; 
So Orpheus did for his own bride ! 
So I unto myself alone will smg ; 
The woods shall to me answer, and my echo 



Early, before the world's light-giving lamp 
His golden beam upon the hills doth spread, 
Having dispersed the night's uncheerful 

damp, 21 

Do ye awake, and, with fresh lustihed,^ 
Go to the bower of my beloved love, 
]\Iy truest turtle dove ; 
Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake, 
And long since ready forth his mask to move, 
With his bright tead ^ that flames with many 

a flake, 
And many a bachelor to wait on him, 
In their fresh garments trim ; 
Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight, 
For lo ! the wished day is come at last, 31 



^ know 2 lustiness 



torch 



That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past, 
Pay to her usury of long delight : 
And, whilst she doth her dight. 
Do ye to her of joy and solace sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your 
echo ring. 

Bring with you all the nymphs that you can 

hear. 
Both of the rivers and the forests green, 
And of the sea that neighbours to her near. 
All with gay garlands goodly well beseen ; 40 
And let them also with them bring in hand 
Another gay garland. 
For my fair love, of lilies and of roses, 
Bound truelove-wise with a blue silk riband ; 
And let them make great store of bridal posies, 
And let them eke bring store of other flowers, 
To deck the bridal bowers ; 
And let the ground whereas ^ her foot shall 

tread. 
For fear the stones her tender foot should 

wrong. 
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, 50 
And diapered - like the discoloured ^ mead ; 
Which done, do at her chamber door await, 
For she will v/aken straight ; 
The whiles do ye this song im.to her sing. 
The woods shall to you answer, and your echo 

ring. 



Wake now, my love, awake ! for it is time ; 
The rosy morn long since left Tithon's bed, 75 
All ready to her silver coach to climb ; 
And Phoebus ■* 'gins to show his glorious head. 
Hark, how the cheerful birds do chant their 

lays 
And carol of love's praise. 
The merry lark her matins sings aloft ; So 
The thrush replies ; the mavis descant plays ; 
The ouzel shrills ; the ruddock warbles soft ; 
So goodly all agree, with sweet concent,* 
To this day's merriment. 
Ah ! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long 
When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' await the coming of your joyous make,® 
And hearken to the birds' love-learned song. 
The dewy leaves among ! 
For they of joy and pleasance to 3'ou sing, 90 
That all the woods them answer, and their 

echo ring. 

' where - marked ^ vari-coloured ■• the sun 
* harmony ® mate 



ii6 



EDMUND SPENSER 



My love is now awake out of her dreams, 
And her fair eyes, hke stars that dimmed were 
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly 

beams 
More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. 
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, 
Help quickly her to dight : 
But first come ye, fair Hours, which were begot, 
In Jove's sweet paradise, of Day and Night ; 
Which do the seasons of the year aUot, loo 
And all that ever in this world is fair 
Do make and still repair : 
And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian queen. 
The which do still adorn her beauty's pride, 
Help to adorn my beautifulest bride ; 
And as ye her array, still throw between 
Some graces to be seen, 
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, 
The whiles the woods shall answer, and your 

echo ring. 
******* 

Lo ! where she comes along with portly pace. 
Like Phoebe,^ from her chamber of the East, 
Arising forth to run her mighty race, 150 

Clad all in white, that 'seems a virgin best. 
So well it her beseems that ye would ween 
Some angel she had been. 
Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire. 
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers 

atween, 
Do like a golden mantle her attire ; 
And, being crowned with a garland green, 
Seem like some maiden queen. 
Her modest eyes, abashed to behold 
So many gazers as on her do stare, 160 

Upon the lowly ground affixed are ; 
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold. 
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, 
So far from being proud. 
Nathless ^ do ye still loud her praises sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 

ring. 

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 185 
The inward beauty of her lively spright,^ 
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree. 
Much more then would ye wonder at that 

sight, 
And stand astonished like to those which read 
Medusa's mazeful head. igo 

There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity, 
Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood, 



^ the moon ^ nevertheless 



Regard of honour, and mild modesty ; 
There virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, 
And giveth laws alone, 
The vv^hich the base affections do obey. 
And yield their services unto her will ; 
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach, to tempt her mind to ill. 
Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures 
And unrevealed pleasures, 201 

Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing, 
That all the woods should answer, and your 
echo ring. 

Open the temple gates unto my love. 
Open them wide, that she may enter in. 
And all the posts adorn as doth behove, 
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, 
For to receive this Saint with honour due, 
That Cometh in to you. 
With trembling steps and humble reverence 
She Cometh in, before th' Almighty's view ; 
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience, 212 

Wh'en so ye come into those holy places, 
To humble your proud faces : 
Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake. 
The which do endless matrimony make ; 
And let the roaring organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; 
The whiles, with hollow throats, 220 

The choristers the joyous anthem sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and their echo 
ring. 

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks 
And blesseth her with his two happy hands, 
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks 
And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain , 
Like crimson dyed m grain : 
That even th' angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain, 230 

Forget their service and about her fly, 
Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair, 
The more the}^ on it stare. 
But her sad ^ eyes, stiU fast'ned on the ground, 
Are governed with goodly modesty, 
That suffers not one look to glance awry 
Which may let in a little thought unsound. 
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, 
The pledge of all our band ? 
Sing, ye sweet angels, Alleluia sing, 240 

That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring. 



spirit 



AMORETTI 



117 



Now all is done : bring home the bride again ; 
Bring home the triumph of our victory : 
Bring home with you the glory of her gain, 
With joyance bring her and with jollity. 
Never had man more joyful day than this 
Whom heaven would heap with bliss ; 
Make feast therefore now all this live-long 

day; 
This day for ever to me holy is. 
Pour out the wine without restraint or stay, 
Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful, 251 
Pour out to all that will. 
And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wme. 
That they may sweat and drunken be withal. 
Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal, 
And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine ; 
And let the Graces dance unto the rest. 
For they can do it best : 
The whiles the maidens do their carol sing, 
To which the woods shall answer, and their 

echo ring. 260 

Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town, 
And leave your wonted labours for this day : 
This day is holy ; do ye write it down, 
That ye forever it remember may ; 
This day the sun is in his chiefest height. 
With Barnaby the bright; 
From whence declining daily by degrees. 
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light. 
When once the Crab behind his back he sees. 
But for this time it ill ordained was, 270 

To choose the longest day in all the year, 
And shortest night, when longest fitter were : 
Yet never day so long, but late would pass. 
Ring ye the bells, to make it wear away. 
And bonfires make all day ; 
And dance about them, and about them sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring. 

Ah ! when will this long weary day have end. 
And lend me leave to come unto my love? 
How slowly do the hours their numbers spend ! 
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move ! 
Haste thee, O fairest planet, to thy home, 282 
Within the western foam : 
Thy tired steeds long since have need of rest. 
Long though it be, at last I see it gloom, 
And the bright evening-star with golden crest 
Appear out of the East. 
Fair child of beauty ! glorious lamp of love ! 
That all the hosts of heaven in ranks dost lead, 
And guidest lovers through the nightes dread. 
How cheerfully thou lookest from above, 291 



And seem'st to laugh atween thy twinkling 

light. 
As joying in the sight 
Of these glad many, which for joy do sing, 
That all the woods them answer, and their 

echo ring ! 

Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast ; 
Enough it is that aU the day was yours : 
Now day is done, and night is nighing fast. 
Now bring the bride into the bridal bowers. 
The night is come, now soon her disarray, 300 
And in her bed her lay ; 
Lay her in lilies and in violets. 
And silken curtains over her display. 
And odoured sheets, and Arras coverlets. 
Behold how goodly my fair love does lie, 
In proud humility ! 
Like unto Maia, whenas Jove her took 
In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass, 
'Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was 
With bathing in the Acidalian brook. 310 

Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone, 
And leave my love alone. 
And leave likewise your former lay to sing : 
The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo 
ring. 

Song! made in lieu of many ornaments, 427 

With which my love should duly have been decked, 

Which cutting of through hasty accidents, 

Ye would not stay your due time to expect, 430 

But promised both to recompense ; 

Be unto her a goodly ornament, 

A nd for short time an endless monument I 

AMORETTI 

VIII 

More than most fair, full of the living fire 

Kindled above imto the Maker near ; 

No eyes, but joys, in which all powers con- 
spire, 

That to the world naught else be counted dear ; 

Through your bright beams doth not the 
blinded guest 

Shoot out his darts to base affections wound ; 

But angels come, to lead frail minds to rest 

In chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound. 

You frame my thoughts, and fashion me 
within ; 

You stop my tongue, and teach my heart I0 
speak ; 10 



ii8 



EDMUND SPENSER 



You calm the storm that passion did begin, 
Strong through your cause, but by your virtue 
weak. 
Dark is the world where your light shined 

never ; 
Well is he born that may behold you ever. 

XXIV 

Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide 
By conduct of some star doth make her way, 
Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty 

guide, 
Out of her course doth wander far astray ; 
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray 
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, 
Do wander now, in darkness and dismay. 
Through hidden perils round about me placed ; 
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past. 
My Helice, the lodestar of my life, lo 

Will shine again, and look on me at last, 
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief : 
Till then I wander careful, comfortless, 
In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness. 

PROTHALAMION 

Calm was the day, and through the trembling 

air 
Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, 
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair ; 
When I (whom sullen care. 
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay 
In princes' court, and expectation vain 
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away, 
Like empty shadows, did afiflict my brain) 
Walked forth, to ease my pain, lo 

Along the shore of silver streaming Thames ; 
Whose rutty ^ bank, the which his river hems, 
Was painted all with variable flowers, 
And all the meads adorned with dainty gems, 
Fit to deck maidens' bowers, . 
And crown their paramours, 
Against the bridal day, which is not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my 
song. 

There, in a meadow, by the river's side, 
A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, 20 

All lovely daughters of the flood thereby. 
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied, 



As each had been a bride : 

And each one had a little wicker basket, 

Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously, 

In which they gathered flowers to fill their 

flasket. 
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously ^ 
The tender stalks on high. 
Of every sort which in that meadow grew 
They gathered some ; the violet, pallid blue. 
The little daisy, that at evening closes, 31 
The virgin lily, and the primrose true. 
With store of vermeil roses. 
To deck their bridegroom's posies, 
Against the bridal day, which was not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my 

song. 

With that, I saw two swans of goodly hue 

Come softly swimming down along the Lee ; 38 

Two fairer birds I yet did never see ; 

The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew 

Did never whiter shew. 

Nor Jove himself; when he a swan would be 

For love of Leda, whiter did appear ; 

Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he. 

Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near ; 

So purely white they were, 

That even the gentle stream, the which them 

bare, 
Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows 

spare 
To wet their silken feathers, lest they might 
Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, 
And mar their beauties bright, 51 

That shone as heaven's light. 
Against their bridal day, which was not long : 
Sweet Thames ! nm softly, till I end my 

song. 

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers 

their fill. 
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood. 
As they came floating on the crystal flood ; 
Whom when they saw, they stood amazed 

still, 
Their wondering eyes to fill ; 59 

Them seemed they never saw a sight so fair 
Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem 
Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair 
Which through the sky draw Venus' silver 

team ; 
For sure they did not seem 
To be begot of any earthly seed, 



^ rooty 



^ neatly 



PROTHALAMION 



119 



But rather angels, or of angels' breed ; 

Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they 

say, 
In sweetest season, when each flower and weed 
The earth did fresh array ; 
So fresh they seemed as day, 70 

Even as their bridal day, which was not 

long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my 
song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 
Great store of flowers, the honour of the 

field, 
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, 
All which upon those goodly birds they threw, 
And all the waves did strew, 
That like old Peneus' waters they did seem, 
When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore, 
Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly the}' 

stream, 80 

That they appear, through lilies' plenteous 

store, 
Like a bride's chamber floor. 
Two of those nymphs, meanwhile, two gar- 
lands bound 
Of freshest flowers which m that mead they 

found. 
The which presenting all in trim array, 
Their snowy foreheads therewithal they 

crowned. 
Whilst one did sing this lay, 
Prepared against that day. 
Against their bridal day, which was not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, tifl I end my 

song. 90 

"Ye gentle birds ! the world's fair ornament, 
And heaven's glory, whom this happy hour 
Doth lead imto your lover's blissful bower, 
Joy may you have, and gentle hearts' content 
Of your love's couplement ; 
And let fair Venus, that is queen of love. 
With her heart-queUing son upon you smile. 
Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove 
All love':> dislike, and friendship's faulty guile 
For ever to assoil ; 100 

Let endless peace your steadfast hearts 

accord, 
And blessed plenty wait upon your board ; 
And let your bed with pleasures chaste 

abound. 
That frviitful issue may to you afford, 
Which ma}' your foes confound, 
And make your joys redound 



Upon your bridal day, which is not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my 
song." 

So ended she ; and all the rest around 
To her redoubled that her undersong, no 
Which said their bridal day should not be long : 
And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground 
Their accents did resound. 
So forth those joyous birds did pass along, 
Adown the Lee, that to them murmured low, 
As he would speak, but that he lacked a 

tongue. 
Yet did by signs his glad affection show, 
Making his stream run slow. 
And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 
'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 
The rest, so far as C}'nthiai doth shend - 121 
The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, 
Did on those two attend. 
And their best service lend. 
Against their wedding day, which was not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, tiU I end my 



At length they all to merry London came, 
To merry London, my most kindly nurse, 
That to me gave this life's first native source ; 
Though from another place I take my name, 
An house of ancient fame: 131 

t There when they came, whereas ^ those bricky 

towers 
The which on Thames' broad, aged back do 

ride. 
Where now the studious lawyers have their 

bowers. 
There whilom wont the Templar Knights to 

bide. 
Till they decayed through pride : 
Next whereunto there stands a statel}' place. 
Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace 
Of that great lord which therein wont to dwell. 
Whose want too well now feels my friendless 

case; 140 

But ah ! here fits not well 
Old woes, but joys, to teU, 
Against the bridal day, which is not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, tiU I end my 

song. 

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, 
Great England's glory, and the world's wide 
wonder, 



^ the moon 



^ shame ^ where 



I20 



EDMUND SPENSER 



Whose dreadful name late through all Spain 

did thunder, 
And Hercules' two pillars standing near 
Did make to quake and fear : 
Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry ! 150 
That fillest England with thy triumph's fame, 
Joy have thou of thy noble victory. 
And endless happiness of thine own name, 
That promiseth the same ; 
That through thy prowess and victorious arms 
Thy country may be freed from foreign harms ; 
And great Ehsa's glorious name may ring 
Through all the world, filled with thy wide 

alarms. 
Which some brave muse may sing 
To ages following, 160 

Upon the bridal day, which is not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my 

song. 

From those high towers this noble lord issuing, 

Like radiant Hesper when his golden hair 

In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fair, 

Descended to the river's open viewing, 

With a great train ensuing. 

Above the rest were goodly to be seen 

Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature 

Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 170 

With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, 

Fit for so goodly stature, 

That like the twins of Jove they seemed in , 

sight. 
Which deck the baldrick of the heavens 

bright ; 
They two, forth pacing to the river's side. 
Received those two fair brides, their love's 

delight ; 
Which, at th' appomted tide, 
Each one did make his bride, 178 

Against their bridal day, which is not long : 
Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my 

song. 

From AN HYMN IN HONOUR OF 
BEAUTY 

What time this world's great Workmaster did 

cast 
To make all things such as we now behold, 30 
It seems that he before his eyes had placed 
A goodly pattern, to whose perfect mould 
He fashioned them as comely as he could. 
That now so fair and seemly they appear 
As nought may be amended anywhere. 35 



That wondrous pattern, wheresoe'er it be, 
Whether in earth laid up in secret store. 
Or else in heaven, that no man may it see 
With sinful eyes, for fear it to deflore,^ 
Is perfect Beauty, v/hich aU men adore ; 40 
Whose face and feature doth so much excel 
All mortal sense, that none the same may teU. 

Thereof as every earthly thing partakes 
Or more or less, by influence divine, 
So it more fair accordingly it makes, 45 

And the gross matter of this earthly mine 
Which clotheth it, thereafter doth refine. 
Doing away the dross which dims the light 
Of that fair beam which therein is empight.^ 

For, through infusion of celestial power 50 
The duller earth it quickeneth with delight. 
And life-full spirits privily doth po\ir 
Through aU the parts, that to the looker's sight 
They seem to please. That is thy sovereign 

might, 
O Cyprian queen ! which, flowing from the 

beam 
Of thy bright star, thou into them dost stream. 

That is the thing which giveth pleasant grace 
To all things fair, that kindleth lively fire. 
Light of thy lamp ; which, shining in the face. 
Thence to the soul darts amorous desire, 60 
And robs the hearts of those which it admire ; 
Therewith thou pointest thy son's poisoned 

arrow. 
That wounds the life, and wastes the inmost 

marrow. 

How vainly then do idle wits invent 
That beauty is nought else but mixture made 
Of colours fair, and goodly temp'rament ^ 66 
Of pure complexions, that shall quickly fade 
And pass away, like to a summer's shade ; 
Or that it is but comely composition 69 

Of parts well measured, with meet disposition ! 

Hath white and red in it such wondrous power. 
That it can pierce through th' eyes vmto the 

heart, 
And therein stir such rage and restless stour,^ 
As nought but death can stint his dolour's 

smart ? 
Or can proportion of the outward part 75 
Move such affection in the inward mind, 
That it can rob both sense, and reason blind? 

^ sully ^ placed ^ mixture * strife 



AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY BEAUTY 



121 



Why do not then the blossoms of tlie field, 
Which are arrayed with much more orient hue, 
And to the sense most dainty odours yield, So 
Work like impression in the looker's view ? 
Or why do not fair pictures like power shew, 
In which ofttimes we nature see of ^ art 
Excelled in perfect limning every part ? 84 

But ah ! believe me, there is more than so, 
That works such wonders in the minds of men ; 
I, that have often prov'd, too well it know. 
And whoso list the like assays to ken 
Shall find by trial, and confess it then, 
That Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, 90 
An outward show of things that only seem. 

For that same goodly hue of white and red. 
With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall 

decay, 
And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spread 
Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away 95 
To that they were, even to corrupted clay : 
That golden wire, those sparkling stars so 

bright 
Shall turn to dust, and lose their goodly light. 

But that fair laiiip, from whose celestial ray 
That light proceeds which kindleth lovers' fire, 
Shall never be extinguished nor decay; loi 
But when the vital spirits do expire. 
Unto her native planet shall retire ; 
For it is heavenly born and cannot die, 
Being a parcel of the purest sky. 105 



So every spirit, as it is most pure, 127 

And hath in it the more of heavenly light. 
So it the fairer body doth procure 
To habit in, and it more fairl}^ dight ^ 130 
With cheerful grace and amiable sight ; 
For of the soul the body form doth take ; 
For soul is form, and doth the body make. 

Therefore, wherever that thou dost behold 
A comely corps,^ with beauty fair endued, 135 
Know this for certain, that the same doth hold 
A beauteous soul, with fair conditions thewed,'' 
Fit to receive the seed of virtue strewed ; 
For all that fair is, is by nature good ; 
That is a sign to know the gentle blood. 140 

Yet oft it falls that many a gentle mind 
Dwells in deformed tabernacle drowned. 



Either by chance, against the course of kind. 
Or through unaptness in the substance found, 
Which it assumed of some stubborn ground. 
That will not yield unto her form's direction, 
But is deformed with some foul imperfection. 

And oft it falls (ay me, the more to rue !) 
That goodly beauty, albe heavenly borne. 
Is foul abused, and that celestial hue, 150 
Which doth the world with her delight adorn, 
Made but the bait of sin, and sinners' scorn. 
Whilst every one doth seek and sue to have it, 
But every one doth seek but to deprave it. 

Yet nathemore ^ is that fair beauty's blame. 
But theirs that do abuse it unto ill: 156 

Nothing so good, but that through guilty 

shame 
May be corrupt, and wrested unto will : 
Natheless the soul is fair and beauteous still. 
However flesh's fault it filthy make; 160 

For things immortal no corruption take. 

From AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY 
BEAUTY 

The means, therefore, which unto us is lent, 
Him to behold, is on his works to look. 
Which he hath made in beauty excellent. 
And in the same, as in a brazen book, 130 
To read enregistered in every nook 
His goodness, which his beauty doth declare ; 
For all that's good is beautiful and fair. 

Thence gathering plumes of perfect specula- 
tion, 
To imp the wings of thy high-flying mind, 135 
Momit up aloft, through heavenly contempla- 
tion, 
From this dark world, whose damps the soul 

do blind. 
And like the native brood of eagle's kind. 
On that bright Sun of Glory fix thine eyes. 
Cleared from gross mists of frail infirmities. 

Humbled with fear and awful reverence, 141 
Before the footstool of his Majesty, 
Throw thyself down, with tremblmg inno- 
cence, 
Ne dare look up with corruptible eye 
On the dread face of that great Deity, 14S 
For fear lest, if he chance to look on thee. 
Thou turn to nought, and quite confounded be. 



' by - adorn ' body "• quah'ties endowed 



' none the more 



122 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 



But lowly fall before his mercy-seat, 
Close covered with the Lamb's integrity • 
From the just wrath of his avengeful threat 150 
That sits upon the righteous throne on high ; 
His throne is built upon Eternity, 
More lirm and durable than steel or brass, 
Or the hard diamond, which them both doth 
pass. 

His sceptre is the rod of Righteousness, 155 
With which he bruiseth all his foes to dust 
And the great Dragon strongly doth repress 
Under the rigour of his judgment just ; 
His seat is Truth, to which the faithful trust. 
From whence proceed her beams so pure and 
bright 160 

That all about him sheddeth glorious light. 
******* 

Ah, then, my hungry soul ! which long hast 

fed 
On idle fancies of thy foolish thought, 
And, with false beauty's flattering bait misled. 
Hast after vain deceitful shadows sought, 291 
Which all are fled, and now have left thee 

nought 
But late repentance through thy follies' prief ; ^ 
Ah ! cease to gaze on matter of thy grief : 

And look at last up to that Sovereign Light, 
From whose pure beams aU perfect beauty 

springs, 296 

That kindleth love in every godly spright. 
Even the love of God ; which loathuig brings 
Of this vile world and these gay-seeming 

things : 
With whose sweet pleasures being so possessed, 
Thy straying thoughts henceforth forever rest. 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) 

ASTROPHEL AND STELLA 

I 

Loving in truth, and fain ^ in verse my love to 

show, 
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure 

of my pain, — 
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might 

make her know. 
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace 

obtain, — 

■* proof ^ desirous 



I sought fit words to paint the blackest face 
of woe ; 

Stud)dng inventions fine, her wits to enter- 
tain, 

Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence 
would flow 

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun- 
burn'd brain. 

But words came halting forth, wanting In- 
vention's stay ; 

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame 
Study's blows ; 10 

And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in 
my way. 

Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless 
in my throes, 

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for 
spite ; 

"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy 
heart, and write." 

XV 

You that do search for every purling spring 
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows. 
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which 

grows 
Near thereabouts, into your poesie wring ; ^ 
Ye that do dictionary's method bring 
Into your rimes, running in rattling rows ; 
You thai poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes 
With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do 

sing ; 
You take wrong ways ; those f ar-f et ^ helps be 

such 
As do bewray a want of inward touch,^ 10 
And sure, at length stol'n goods do come to 

light : 
But if, both for your love and skill, your 

name 
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame, 
Stella behold, and then begin to endite. 

XXXI 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 

the skies ! 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
What, may it be that even in heav'nly place 
That busy archer ^ his sharp arrows tries ! 
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, 
I read it in thy looks ; thy languished grace, 

^ force - far-fetched ^ feeling •* Cupid 



HYMN TO APOLLO 



123 



To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.^ 
Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 
Is constant love deem'd there but want of 

wit? 
Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 12 
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth 

possess ? 
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 

xxxrx 

Come, Sleep ! Sleep, the certain knot of 

peace. 
The baiting-place^ of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
Th' indifferent judge between the high and 

With shield of proof shield me from out the 

prease ^ 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth 

throv," : 

make in me those civil wars to cease ; 

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, 10 
A rosy garland and a weary head : 
And if these things, as being thine in right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
Livelier then else-where, Stella's image see. 

XLI 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my 

lance 
Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize. 
Both by the judgment of the English eyes 
And of some sent from that sweet enemy 

France ; 
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance. 
Town folks my strength ; a daintier judge 

applies 
His praise too slight which from good use 

doth rise ; 
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; 
Others, because of both sides I do take 9 

My blood from them who did exceU in this, 
Think Nature me a man-at-arms did make. 
How far they shot awry ! the true cause is, 
Stella looked on, and from her heav'nly face 
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my 

race. 



THE NIGHTINGALE 

The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth 
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking. 
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, 

springeth, 
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book 

making. 
And mournfully bewailing, 5 

Her throat in times expresseth 
What grief her breast oppresseth 
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. 
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, 
That here is juster cause of painful sadness : 
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth : 1 1 
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart in- 

vadeth. 



HYMN TO APOLLO 

ApoUo great, whose beams the greater world 

do light, 
And in our little world do clear our inward 

sight. 
Which ever shine, though hid from earth by 

earthly shade. 
Whose lights do ever live, but in our darkness 

fade; 
Thou god whose youth was decked with spoil 

of Python's skin 5 

(So humble knowledge can throw down the 

snakish sin) ; 
Latona's son, whose birth in pain and travail 

long 
Doth teach, to learn the good what travails 

do belong ; 
In travail of our life (a short but tedious 

space) , 
While brickie ^ hour-glass runs, guide thou our 

panting pace : 10 

Give us foresightful minds ; give us minds to 

obey 
What foresight tells ; our thoughts upon thy 

knowledge stay. 
Let so our fruits grow up that Nature be main- 
tained, 
But so our hearts keep down, with vice they 

be not stained. 
Let this assured hold our judgments over- 
take, 
That nothing wins the heaven but what doth 

earth forsake. 16 



^ reveals - place of refreshment ' throng 



brittle 



124 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 



ARCADIA 
BOOK I. CHAP. I 

And now they were already come upon the 
stays/ when one of the sailors descried a 
galley which came with sails and oars directly 
in the chase of them, and straight perceived 
it was a well-known pirate, who hunted, not 
only for goods, but for bodies of men, which 
he employed either to be his galley-slaves or 
to sell at the best market. Which when the 
master understood, he commanded forthwith 
to set on all the canvas they could and fly 
homeward, leaving in that sort poor Pyrocles, 
so near to be rescued. But what did not 
Musidorus say? what did he not offer, to 
persuade them to venture- the fight? But 
fear, standing at the gates of their ears, put 
back all persuasions ; so that he had nothing 
to accompany Pyrocles but his eyes, nor to 
succour him but his wishes. Therefore pray- 
ing for him, and casting a long look that way, 
he saw the galley leave the pursuit of them 
and turn to take up the spoils of the other 
wreck ; and, lastly, he might well see them 
lift up the young man ; and, "Alas !" said he 
to himself, "dear Pyrocles, shall that body 
of thine be enchained? Shall those victori- 
ous hands of thine be commanded to base 
ofiices? Shall virtue become a slave to those 
that be slaves to viciousness? Alas, better 
had it been thou hadst ended nobly thy noble 
days. What death is so evil as imworthy 
servitude?" But that opinion soon ceased 
when he saw the galley setting upon another 
ship, which held long and strong fight with 
her ; for then he began afresh to fear the life 
of his friend, and to wish well to the pirates, 
whom before he hated, lest in their ruin he 
might perish. But the fishermen made such 
speed into the haven that they absented his 
eyes from beholding the issue ; where being 
entered, he could procure neither them nor 
any other as then ^ to put themselves into the 
sea ; so that, being as full of sorrow for being 
imable to do anything as void of counsel how 
to do anything, besides that sickness grew 
something upon him, the honest shepherds. 
Strephon and Claius (who, being themselves 
true friends, did the more perfectly judge the 
justness of his sorrow) advise him that he 

^ come upon the stays = go about from one 
tack to another ^ as then = at the time 



should mitigate somewhat of his woe, since 
he had gotten an amendment in fortune, being 
come from assured persuasion of his death to 
have no cause to despair of his life, as one 
that had lamented the death of his sheep 
should after know they were but strayed, 
would receive pleasure, though readUy he 
knew not where to find them. 

CHAP. II 

"Now, sir," said they, "thus for ourselves 
it is. We are, m profession, but shepherds, 
and, in this country of Laconia, little better 
than strangers, and, therefore, neither m skill 
nor ability of power greatly to stead 3'-ou. 
But what we can present unto you is this : 
Arcadia, of which co^mtry we are, is but a 
little way hence, and even upon the next con- 
fines. 

There dwelleth a gentleman, by name 
Kalander, who vouchsafeth much favour unto 
us ; a man who for his hospitality is so much 
haunted ^ that no news stir but come to his 
ears ; for his upright dealing so beloved of his 
neighbours that he hath many ever ready 
to do him their uttermost service, and, by the 
great goodwill our Prince bears him, may 
soon obtain the use of his name and credit, 
which hath a principal sway, not only in his 
own Arcadia, but in all these countries of 
Peloponnesus ; and, which is worth all, all these 
things give him not so much power as his 
nature gives him will to benefit, so that it 
seems no music is so sweet to his ear as de- 
served thanks. To him we wiU bring }'0u, 
and there you may recover again your health, 
without which 3^ou cannot be able to make 
any diligent search for your friend, and, 
therefore but in that respect, you must labour 
for it. Besides, we are sure the comfort of 
courtesy and ease of wise counsel shall not 
be wanting." 

Musidorus (who, besides he n'as merely ^ 
unacquainted m the country, had his wits 
astonished ^ with sorrow) gave easy consent 
to that from which he saw no reason to dis- 
agree ; and therefore, defraymg '' the mariners 
with a ring bestowed upon them, they took 
their journey together through Laconia, Claius 
and Strephon by course carrying his chest for 
him, Musidorus only bearing in his counte- 
nance evident marks of a sorrowful mind 

* visited ^ entirely ^ stricken ^ paying 



ARCADIA 



125 



supported with a weak body ; which they per- 
ceiving, and knowing that the violence of 
sorrow is not, at the first, to be striven withal 
(being like a mighty beast, sooner tamed with 
followmg than overthrown by withstanding) 
they gave way unto it for that day and the 
next, never troubling him, either with asking 
questions or finding fault with his melancholy, 
but rather fitting to his dolour dolorous dis- 
courses of their own and other folk's misfor- 
tunes. Which speeches, though they had not 
a lively entrance to his senses, shut up in sor- 
row, yet, like one half asleep, he took hold of 
much of the matters spoken imto him, so as 
a man may say, ere sorrow was aware, they 
made his thoughts bear away something else 
beside his own sorrow, which wrought so in 
him that at length he grew content to mark 
their speeches, then to marvel at such wit in 
shepherds, after to like their company, and 
lastly to vouchsafe conference ; so that the 
third day after, in the time that the morning 
did strow roses and violets in the heavenly 
floor against the coming of the sun, the night- 
ingales, striving one with the other which 
could in most dainty variety recount their 
wrong-caused sorrow, made them put off their 
sleep ; and, rising from under a tree, which 
that night had been their pavUion, they went 
on their journey, which by and by Avelcomed 
Musidorus' eyes, wearied with the wasted 
soU of Laconia, with delightful prospects. 
There were hills which garnished their proud 
heights with stately trees; humble valleys 
whose base estate seemed comforted with 
refreshing of silver rivers ; meadows enamelled 
with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers ; thickets 
Avhich, being lined with most pleasant shade, 
were witnessed so to by the cheerful disposi- 
tion of many weU-tuned birds ; each pasture 
stored with sheep, feeding with sober security, 
while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, 
craved the dams' comfort : here a shepherd's 
boy piping, as though he should never be old ; 
there a young shepherdess knitting, and 
withal singing, and it seemed that her voice 
comforted her hands to work, and her hands 
kept time to her voice's music. As for the 
houses of the country (for many houses came 
under their eye) they were all scattered, no 
two being one by the other, and yet not so 
far off as that it barred mutual succour : a 
show, as it were, of an accompanable ^ soli- 



'tariness, and of a civiP wildness. "I pray 
you," said Musidorus, then first unsealing 
his long-silent lips, "what countries be these 
we pass through, which are so diverse in show, 
the one wanting no store,^ the other having 
no store but of want?" 

"The country," answered Claius, "where 
you were cast ashore, and now are passed 
through, is Laconia, not so poor by the 
barrenness of the soil (though in itself not 
passing fertile) as by a civil war, which, being 
these two years within the bowels of that 
estate, between the gentlemen and the peas- 
ants (by them named helots) hath in this sort, 
as it were, disfigured the face of nature and 
made it so unhospitall as now you have found 
it ; the towns neither of the one side nor the 
other willingly opening their gates to strangers, 
nor strangers willingly entering, for fear of 
being mistaken. 

"But this country, where now you set your 
foot, is Arcadia; and even hard by is the 
house of Kalander, whither we lead you: 
this country being thus decked with peace 
and (the child of peace) good husbandry. 
These houses you see so scattered are of men, 
as we two are, that live upon the commodity 
of their sheep, and therefore, in the division 
of the Arcadian estate, are termed shepherds ; 
a happy people, wanting ^ little, because they 
desire not much." 

"What cause, then," said Musidorus, 
"made you venture to leave this sweet life 
and • put yourself in yonder impleasant and 
dangerous realm?" "Guarded with pov- 
erty," answered Strephon, "and guided with 
love." "But now," said Claius, "since it 
hath pleased you to ask anything of us, whose 
baseness is such as the very knowledge is 
darkness, give us leave to know something 
of you and of the young man )^ou so much la- 
ment, that at least we may be the better in- 
structed to inform Kalander, and he the 
better know how to proportion his entertain- 
ment." IMusidorus, according to the agree- 
ment between Pyrocles and him to alter 
their names, answered that he called himself 
Palladius, and his friend Daiphantus. "But, 
till I have him again," said he, "I am indeed 
nothing, and therefore my storv^ is of nothing. 
His entertainment, since so good a man he is, 
cannot be so low as I account my estate ; 
and, in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may 



^ companionable 



^ civilized " plenty ^ lacking 



126 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 



be to help me by some means to seek my' 
friend." 

They perceived he was not willing to open 
himself further, and therefore, without 
further questioning, brought him to the house ; 
about which they might see (with fit consider- 
ation both of the air, the prospect, and the 
nature of the ground) all such necessary 
additions to a great house as might well show 
Kalander knew that provision is the founda- 
tion of hospitaUty, and thrift the fuel of mag- 
nificence. The house itself was built of fair 
and strong stone, not affecting so much any 
extraordinary kind of fineness as an honour- 
able representing of a firm stateliness; the 
lights, doors, and stairs rather directed to the 
use of the guest than to the eye of the artificer, 
and yet as the one chiefly heeded, so the other 
not neglected ; each place handsome without 
curiositj^, and homely without loathsomeness ; 
not so dainty as not to be trod on, nor yet 
slubbered up ^ with good-fellowship ; ^ aU 
more lasting than beautiful, but that the con- 
sideration of the exceeding lastingness made 
the eye believe it was exceeding beautiful ; 
the servants, not so many in nmnber as 
cleanly in apparel and serviceable in behav- 
iour, testifying even in their countenances 
that their master took as well care to be served 
as of them that did serve. One of them was 
, forthwith ready to welcome the shepherds, 
as men who, though they were poor, their 
master greatly favoured ; and understanding 
by them that the young man with them was 
to be much accounted of, for that they had 
seen tokens of more than common greatness, 
howsoever now eclipsed with fortune, he ran 
to his master, who came presently forth, and 
pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but es- 
pecially applying him to Musidorus, Strephon 
privately told him all what he knew of him, 
and particularly that he found this stranger 
was loth to be known. 

"No," said Kalander, speaking aloud, "I 
am no herald to inquire of men's pedigrees; 
it sufficeth me if I know their virtues ; which, 
if this young man's face be not a false witness, 
do better apparel his mind than you have done 
his body." While he was speaking, there 
came a boy, in show like a merchant's prentice, 
who, taking Strephon by the sleeve, delivered 
him a letter, written jointly both to him and 
Claius from Urania; which they no sooner 



had read, but that with short leave-taking 
of Kalander, v/ho quickly guessed and smiled 
at the matter, and once again, though hastily, 
recommending the young man imto him, they 
went away, leaving Musidorus even loth to 
part with them, for the good conversation 
he had of them, and obligatioii he accounted 
himself tied in unto them ; and therefore, 
they delivering his chest unto him, he opened 
it, and would have presented them with two 
very rich jewels, but they absolutely refused 
them, teUing hun they were more than enough 
rewarded in the knowing of him, and without 
hearkening unto a reply, like men whose hearts 
disdained all desires but one, gat speedily 
away, as if the letter had brought wings to 
make them fly. But by that sight Kalander 
soon judged that his guest was of no mean 
calling ; ^ and therefore the more respectfuUy 
entertaining him, Musidorus found his sick- 
ness, which the fight, the sea, and late travel 
had laid upon him, grow greatly, so that fear- 
ing some sudden accident, he delivered the 
chest to Kalander, which was fuU of most 
precious stones, gorgeously and cunningly 
set in divers manners, desiring him he would 
keep those trifles, and if he died, he would 
bestow so much of it as was needful to find 
out and redeem a young man naming him- 
self Daiphantus, as then in the hands of La- 
conian pirates. 

But Kalander seeing him faint more and 
more, with careful speed conveyed him to the 
most commodious lodging in his house ; where, 
being possessed with an extreme burning fever, 
he continued some while with no great hope 
of life ; but youth at length got the victoiy of 
sickness, so that in six weeks the excellency 
of his returned beauty was a credible ambas- 
sador of his health, to the great jo>"-oi Kal- 
ander, who, as in this time he had b)^ certain 
friends of his, that dwelt near the sea in 
Messenia, set forth a ship and a galley to seek 
and succour Daiphantus, so at home did he 
omit nothing which he thought might either 
profit or gratify Palladius. 

For, having found in him (besides his bodily 
gifts, beyond the degree of admiration) by 
daily discourses, which he delighted himself 
to have with him, a mind of most excellent 
composition (a piercing wit, quite void of 
ostentation, high-erected thoughts seated in 
a heart of courtesy, an eloquence as sweet in 



^ made slovenly - revelry 



rank 



JOHN LYLY 



127 



the uttering as slow to come to the uttering, 
a behaviour so noble as gave a majesty to 
adversity, and all in a man whose age could 
not be above one-and-twenty years), the 
good old man was even enamoured with a 
fatherly love towards him, or rather became 
his servant by the bonds sucli virtue laid upon 
him ; once, he acknowledged himself so to be, 
by the badge of diligent attendance. 

JOHN LYLY (i 554-1606) 
From EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND 

"I perceive, Camilla, that be your cloth 
never so bad, it will take some colour, and 
your cause never so false, it will bear son:ie 
show of probability, wherein you manifest the 
right nature of a woman, who having no way 
to win, thinketh to overcome with words. 
This I gather by your answer, that beauty 
ma}' have fair leaves, and foul fruit, that aU 
that are. amiable are not honest, that love 
proceedeth of the woman's perfection, and the 
man's follies, that the trial looked for, is to 
perform whatsoever they promise, that in 
mind he be virtuous, in body comely, such a 
husband in my opinion is to be wished for, 
but not looked for. Take heed, Camilla, 
that seeking all the wood for a straight stick 
you choose not at the last a crooked staff, or 
prescribing a good counsel to others, thou 
thyself follow the worst : much like to Chius, 
who selling the best wine to others, drank 
himself of the lees." 

''Truly," quoth Camilla, "my wool was 
black, and therefore it coidd take no other 
colour, and my cause good, and therefore 
admitteth no cavil : as for the rules I set down 
of love, they were not coined of me, but 
learned, and, being so true, believed. If my 
fortune be so ill that, searching for a wand, I 
gather a cammock,i or, selling wine to other, I 
drink vinegar myself, I must be content, that 
of the worst, poor help, patience,^ which by so 
much the more is to be borne, by how much 
the more it is perforce." 

As Surius was speaking, the Lady Flavia 
prevented him, saying, "It is time that you 
break off your speech, lest we have nothing to 
speak, for should you wade any farther, you 

^ crooked stick ^ = with the only contentment 
possible at the worst, the poor help patience 



would both waste the night and leave us no 
time, and take our reasons and leave us no 
matter; that every one therefore may say 
somewhat, we command you to cease ; that 
you have both said so well, we give you 
thanks." 



The Lady Flavia speaking in his cast,^ 
proceeded in this manner : 

"Truly, Martius, I had not thought that as 
yet your colt's tooth stuck in your mouth,^ or 
that so old a truant in love, could hitherto 
remember his lesson. You seem not to infer 
that it is requisite they should meet, but being 
in love that it is convenient, lest, falling into 
a mad mood, they pine in. their own peevish- 
ness. Why then let it follow, that the drunk- 
ard which surfeiteth with wine be alwaj's 
quaffing, because he liketh it, or the epicure 
which glutteth himself with meat be ever 
eating, for that it contenteth him, not seeking 
at any time the means to redress their vices, 
but to renew them. But it fareth with the 
lover as it doth with him that poureth in much 
wine, who is ever more thirsty than he that 
drinketh moderately, for having once tasted 
the delights of love, he desireth most the thing 
that hurteth him most, not laying a plaster 
to the wound, but a corrosive. 

"I am of this mind, that if it be dangerous, 
to lay flax to the lire, salt to the eyes, sulphur 
to the nose, that then it cannot be but perilous 
to let one lever come in presence of the other." 
Surius overhearing the lady, and seeing her so 
earnest, although he were more earnest in his 
suit to Camilla, cut her off with these words : 

"Good Madam, give me leave either to 
depart, or to speak, for in truth you gall me 
more with these terms, than you wist,^ in 
seeming to invei'gh so bitterly against the 
meeting of lovers, which is the only marrow 
of love, and though I doubt not but that 
Martius is sufficiently armed to answer you, 
yet would I not have those reasons refelled,'* 
which I loathe to have repeated. It may be 
you utter them not of malice you bear to love, 
but only to move controversy where there is 
no question : ^ for if thou envy to have lovers 
meet, why did you grant us; if allow it, why 
seek you to separate us?" 

^ style, manner ^ i.e. I had not thought that 
j'ou still retained the wanton tendencies of your 
youth ^ know ■* refuted ^ difference of opinion 



128 



JOHN LYLY 



The good lady could not refrain from 
laughter, when she saw Surius so angry, who 
in the midst of his own tale, was troubled with 
hers, whom she thus again answered. 

"I cry you mercy ,^ gentleman, I had not 
thought to have catched you, when I fished for 
another, but I perceive now that with one 
bean it is easy to get two pigeons, and with 
one bait to have divers bites. I see that 
others may guess where the shoe wrings, 
besides him that wears it." "Madam," 
quoth Surius, "you have caught a frog, if 
I be not deceived, and therefore as good it 
were not to hurt him, as not to eat him, but 
if aU this while you angled to have a bite at 
a lover, you should have used no bitter medi- 
cines, but pleasant baits." 

"I cannot tell," answered Flavia, "whether 
my bait were bitter or not, but sure I am I 
have the fish by the gill, that doth me good." 
Camilla not thinking to be silent, put in her 
spoke as she thought into the best wheel, 
saying, 

"Lady, your cunning may deceive you in 
fishing with an angle, therefore to catch him 
you would have, you were best to use a net." 
"A net !" quoth Flavia, "I need none, for my 
fish playeth in a net already." With that 
Surius began to wince, replying immediately, 
" So doth many a fish, good lady, that slippeth 
out, when the fisher thinketh him fast in, and 
it may be, that either your net is too weak to 
hold him, or your hand too wet." "A wet 
hand," quoth Flavia, "will hold a dead her- 
ring:" "Aye," quoth Surius, "but eels are no 
herrings." "But lovers are," said Flavia. 

Surius not willing to have the grass mown, 
whereof he meant to make his hay, began 
thus to conclude : 

" Good Lady, leave off fishing for this time, 
and though it be Lent, rather break a statute 
which is but penal, than sew ^ a pond that may 
be perpetual." "I am content," quoth Flavia, 
"rather to fast for once, than to want a pleas- 
ure forever: yet, Surius, betwixt us two, I 
will at large prove, that there is nothing in 
love more venomous than meeting, which 
fiileth the mind with grief and the body with 
diseases: for having the one, he cannot fail 
of the other. But now, Philautus and niece 
Francis, since I am cut off, begin you: but 
be short, because the time is short, and that 
I was more short than I would." 



APELLES' SONG 

Cupid and my Campaspe played 

At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid. 

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows. 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows : 

Loses them too ; then down he throws 5 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; 

With these the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple of his chin ; 

All these did m.y Campaspe win. 10 

At last he set her both his eyes ; 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love, has she done this to thee ? 

•What shall, alas ! become of me ? 

SPRING'S WELCOME 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail? 

'tis the ravished nightingale. 
"Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries. 
And still her woes at midnight rise. 

Brave prick-song ! who is't now we hear ? 5 
None but the lark so shriU and clear ; 
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings. 
The morn not waking till she sings. 

Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat 
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note; 10 

Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing. 
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring ; 
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring ! 

FAIRY REVELS 

Omnes. Pinch him, pinch him black and 
blue ; 
Saucy mortals must not view 
What the queen of stars is doing, 
Nor pry into our fairy wooing. 

1 Fairy. Pinch him blue — ' 5 

2 Fairy. And pinch him black — 

3 Fairy. Let him not lack 

Sharp nails to pinch him blue and 

red. 
Till sleep has rocked his addlehead. 

4 Fairy. For the trespass he hath done, 10 

Spots o'er all his flesh shall run. 
Kiss Endymion, kiss his eyes. 
Then to our midnight heydeguyes.^ 



^ I beg your pardon ^ drain , empty 



^ countrv dances 



THOMAS LODGE 



129 



THOMAS LODGE (i558?-i625) 

From ROSALYNDE: EUPHUES' 
GOLDEN LEGACY 

They came no sooner nigh the folds, but 
they might see where their discontented 
forester was walking in his melancholy. J^s 
soon as Aliena saw him, she smiled, and said 
to Ganimede: "Wipe your eyes, sweeting, 
for yonder is your sweetheart this morning, 
in deep prayers no doubt to Venus, that she 
may make you as pitiful as he is passionate. 
Come on, Ganimede, I pray thee let's have a 
little sport with him." "Content," quoth 
Ganimede, and with that, to waken him out 
of his deep memento,''- he- began thus : 

"Forester, good fortune to thy thoughts, 
and ease to thy passions ! What makes you 
so early abroad this morn, in contemplation, 
no doubt, of your Rosalynde? Take heed, 
forester, step not too far ; the ford may be 
deep, and you slip over the shoes. I tell thee, 
flies have their spleen, the ants choler, the 
least hairs shadows, and the smallest loves 
great desires. Tis good, forester, to lovej 
but not to overlove, lest, in loving her that 
likes not. thee, thou fold thyself in an endless 
labyrinth." Rosader seeing the fair shep- 
herdess and her pretty swain, in whose com- 
pany he felt the greatest ease of his care, he 
returned them a salute on this manner: 

"Gentle shepherds, all hail, and as healthful 
be your flocks as you happy in content. Love 
is restless, and my bed is but the cell of my 
bane, in that there I find busy thoughts and 
broken slumbers. Here, although every- 
where passionate,^ yet I brook love with more 
patience, in that every object feeds mine eye 
with variety of fancies. When I look on 
Flora's beauteous tapestry, checkered with the 
pride of all her treasure, I call to mind the 
fair face of Rosalynde, whose heavenly hue 
exceeds the rose and the lily in their highest 
excellence. The brightness of Phoebus' shine 
puts me in mind to think of the sparkling 
flames that flew from her eyes and set my 
heart first on fire ; the sweet harmony of the 
birds puts me in remembrance of the rare 
melody of her voice, which like the Syren 
enchanteth the ears of the hearer. Thus 

^ meditation ^ he = Rosalynde disguised as 
Ganimede ^ troubled 



in contemplation I salve my sorrows, with 
applying the perfection of every object to the 
excellence of her qualities." 

"She is much beholding unto you," quoth 
Aliena, "and so much that I have oft wished 
with myself that if I should ever prove as 
amorous as GEnone, I might find as faithful a 
Paris as yourself." 

"How say you by this Itetn, forester?" 
quoth Ganimede. "The fair shepherdess 
favours you, who is mistress of so many flocks. 
Leave off, man, the supposition of Rosalynde's 
love, whenas, watching at her, you rove be- 
yond the moon ; and cast your looks upon my 
mistress, who no doubt is as fair though not so 
royal. One bird in the hand is worth tv^'o in 
the wood ; better possess the love of Aliena, 
than catch frivolously at the shadow of Rosa- 
lynde." 

"I'll tell thee, boy," quoth Rosader; "so 
is my fancy fixed on my Rosalynde, that were 
thy mistress as fair as Leda or Danae, whom 
Jove courted in transformed shapes, mine 
eyes would not vouch ^ to entertain their 
beauties ; and so hath Love locked me in her 
perfections, that I had rather only contem- 
plate in her beauties, than absolutely possess 
the excellence of any other." 

"Venus is to blame, forester, if, having so 
true a servant of you, she reward you not 
with Rosalynde, if Rosalynde were more fairer 
than herself. But leaving this prattle, now 
I'll put you in mind of your promise about 
those sonnets which you said were at home 
in your lodge." "I have them about me," 
quoth Rosader; "let us sit down, and then 
you shall hear what a poetical fury Love will 
infuse into a man." With that they sat down 
upon a green bank shadowed with fig trees, 
and Rosader, fetching a deep sigh, read them 
this sonnet : 

Rosader's Sonnet 

In sorrow's cell I laid me down to sleep, 
But waking woes were jealous of mine eyes. 
They made them watch, and bend themselves 

to weep ; 
But weeping tears their want could not suffice. 
Yet since for her they wept who guides my 

heart, 
They, weeping, smile and triumph in their 
smart. 

^ condescend 



I30 



THOMAS LODGE 



Of these my tears a fountain fiercely springs, 
Where Venus bains ^ herself incensed with 

love; 
Where Cupid boweth his fair feathered wings. 
But I behold what pains I must approve. 
Care drinks it dry ; but when on her I 

think, 
Love makes me weep it full unto the brink. 

Meanwhile my sighs yield truce unto my tears, 
By them the winds increased and fiercely 

blow; 
Yet when I sigh, the flame more plain appears. 
And by their force with greater power doth 
glow. 
Amidst these pains all Phoenix-like I thrive, 
Since Love that yields me death may life 
revive. 

Rosader, en esperance.^ 

"Now surely, forester," quoth Aliena, 
"when thou madest this sonnet, thou wert in 
some amorous quandar)^, neither too fearful, 
as despairing of thy mistress' favours, nor too 
gleesome, as hoping in thy fortunes." "I 
can smile," quoth Ganimede, "at the sonet- 
toes, canzones, madrigals, rounds and roimde- 
lays, that these pensive patients pour out, 
when their eyes are more full of wantonness 
than their hearts of passions. Then, as the 
fishers put the sweetest bait to the fairest fish, 
so these Ovidians," holding A mo in their 
tongues, when their thoughts come at hap- 
hazard, write that they be wrapped in an end- 
less labyrinth of sorrow, when, walking in 
the large lease of liberty, they only have their 
humours in their inkpot. If they find women 
so fond,^ that they will with such painted 
lures come to their lust, then they triumph till 
they be full gorged with pleasures ; and then 
fly they away, like ramage kites, to their own 
content, leaving the tame fool, their mistress, 
full of fancy, yet without ever a feather. If 
they miss (as dealing with some wary wanton, 
that Avants not such a one as themselves, but 
spies their subtilty), they end their amours 
with a few feigned sighs ; and so their excuse 
is, their mistress is cruel, and they smother 
passions with patience. Such, gentle forester, 
we may deem you to be, that rather pass 
away the time here in these woods with writing 
amorcts, than to be deeply enamoured, as 

^ bathes ^ in hope ^ devotees of Ovid's Art of 
Love ■■ foolish ^ untamed hawks 



you say, of your Rosalynde. If you be such 
a one, then I pray God, when you think j-our 
fortunes at the highest, and your desires to be 
most excellent, then that you may with Ixion 
embrace Juno in a cloud, and have nothing 
but a marble mistress to release your martyr- 
dom ; but if you be true and trusty, eye- 
pained and heart-sick, then accursed be 
Rosalynde if she prove cruel; for, forester, 
(I flatter not) thou art worthy of as fair as 
she." Aliena, spying the storm by the wind, 
smiled to see how Ganimede flew to the fist 
without any call ; but Rosader, who took 
him flat for a shepherd's swain, made him 
this answer : 

"Trust me, swain," quoth Rosader, "but 
my canzon ^ was written in no such humour ; 
for mine eye and my heart are relatives, the 
one drawing fancy ^ by sight, the other enter- 
taining her by sorrow. If thou sawest my 
Rosalynde, with what beauties Nature hath 
favoured her, with what perfection the heav- 
ens hath graced her, with what qualities the 
Gods have endued her, then wouldst thou say, 
there is none so fickle that could be fleeting 
unto her. If she had been ^^neas' Dido, had 
Venus and Juno both scolded him from Car- 
thage, yet her excellence, despite of them, 
would have detained him at Tyre. If Phyllis 
had been as beauteous, or Ariadne as virtu- 
ous, or both as honourable and excellent as 
she, neither had the philbert tree sorrowed in 
the death of despairing Phyllis, nor the stars 
have been graced with Ariadne, but Demo- 
phoon and Theseus had been trusty to their 
paragons. I will tell thee, swain, if with a 
deep insight thou couldst pierce into the 
secret of my loves, and see what deep impres- 
sions of her idea affection hath made in my 
heart, then wouldst thovi confess I were pass- 
ing passionate, and no less endued with ad- 
mirable patience." "Why," quoth Aliena, 
"needs there patience in Love?" "Or else 
in nothing," quoth Rosader ; "for it is a rest- 
less sore that hath no ease, a canker that still 
frets, a disease that taketh away all hope of 
sleep. If, then, so many sorrows, sudden joys, 
momentary pleasures, continual fears, daily 
griefs, and nightly woes be found in love, then 
is not he to be accounted patient, that smoth- 
ers all these passions with silence?" "Thou 
speakest by experience," quoth Ganimede, 
"and therefore we hold all thv words for 



^ a kind of sons 



- love 



ROBERT GREENE 



131 



axioms. But is love such a lingering mal- 
ady?" "It is," quoth he, "either extreme 
or mean, according to the mind of the party 
that entertains it ; for as the weeds grow 
longer untouched than the pretty flowers, 
and the flint lies safe in the quarry, when the 
emerald is suffering the lapidary's tool, so 
mean men are freed from Venus' injuries, 
when kings are environed with a labyrinth 
of her cares. The whiter the lawn is, the 
deeper is the mole,^ the more purer the chrys- 
olite the sooner stained; and such as have 
their hearts full of honour, have their loves 
full of the greatest sorrows. But in whomso- 
ever," quoth Rosader, "he fixeth his dart, he 
never leaveth to assault him, till either he hath 
won him to folly or fancy ; for as the moon 
never goes without the star Lunisequa,^ so a 
lover never goeth without the unrest of his 
thoughts. For proof you shaU hear another 
fancy of my making." "Now do, gentle 
forester," quoth Ganimede. And with that 
he read over this sonetto : 

Rosader's Second Soketto 

Turn I my looks unto the skies. 

Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes ; 

If so I gaze upon the ground, 

Love then in every flower is found ; 

Search I the shade to fly my pain, 

He meets me in the shade again ; 

Wend I to walk in secret grove, 

Even there I meet with sacred Love ; 

If so I bain ^ me in the spring. 

Even on the brink I hear him sing ; 10 

If so I meditate alone, 

He will be partner of my moan ; 

If so I mourn, he weeps with me; 

And where I am, there wifl he be. 

WTienas I talk of Rosalynde, 

The God from coyness waxeth kind, 

And seems in selfsame flames to fry, 

Because he loves as well as I. 

Sweet Rosalynde, for pity rue. 

For- why '^ than Love I am more true ; 20 

He, if he speed ^ will quickly fly. 

But in thy love I live and die. 

" How like you this sonnet ? " quoth Rosader. 
" Marry," quoth Ganimede, "for the pen well, 
for the passion ill ; for as I praise the one, I 
pity the other " . . . . 



^ discolored spot - Moon-follower 
^ because ^ succeed 



^ bathe 



ROBERT GREENE (i56o?-i592) 

SONG 

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content ; 

The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; 
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry 
frown : 
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
such bliss, 5 

Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 

The homely house that harbours quiet rest ; 

The cottage that affords no pride nor care; 
The mean that 'grees with country music best ; 

The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare ; 
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 1 1 
A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 

PHILOMELA'S ODE 

Sitting by a river's side, 

Where a silent stream did glide, 

Muse I did of many things 

That the mind in quiet brings. 

I 'gan think how some men deem 

Gold their god ; and some esteem 

Honour is the chief content 

That to man in life is lent. 

And some others do contend, 

Quiet none like to a friend. 10 

Others hold there is no wealth 

Compared to a perfect health. 

Some man's mind in quiet stands, 

When he is lord of many lands. 

But I did. sigh, and said all this . 

Was but a shade of perfect bliss ; 

And in my thoughts I did approve, 

Nought so sweet as is tiaie love. 

Love 'twixt lovers passeth these. 

When mouth kisseth and heart 'gres, 20 

With folded arms and lips meeting, 

Each sold another sweetly greeting; 

For bjr the breath the soul fleeteth, 

And soul with soul in kissing meeteth. 

If love be so sweet a thing. 

That such happy bliss doth bring, 

Happy is love's sugared thrall, 

But unhappy maidens all, 

Who esteem your virgin blisses 

Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses. 30 

No such quiet to the mind 

As true Love with kisses kind ; 



132 



ROBERT GREENE 



But if a kiss prove unchaste, 
Then is true love quite disgraced. 
Though love be sweet, learn this of me. 
No sweet love but honesty. 

SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD 

Weep not, my wanton,^ smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 
Mother's wag, pretty boy, 
Father's sorrow, father's joy ; 
When thy father first did see 5 

Such a boy by him and me. 
He was glad, I was woe, 
Fortune changed made him so, 
When he left his pretty boy, 
Last his sorrow, first his joy. 10 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon m.y knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 
Streaming tears that never stint, 
Like pearl drops from a flint, 
FeU by course from his eyes, 15 

That one another's place supplies ; 
Thus he grieved in every part, 
Tears of blood fell from his heart. 
When he left his pretty boy. 
Father's sorrow, father's joy. 20 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee. 
When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 

The wanton smiled, father wept, 

Mother cried, baby leapt ; 

More he crowed, more he cried, 25 

Nature could not sorrow hide : 

He must go, he must kiss 

Child and mother, baby bless. 

For he left his pretty boy, 

Father's sorrow, father's joy. 30 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 
When thou art old there's grief enough for 
thee. 

THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE'S SONG 

Ah, what is love? It is a pretty thing. 
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king ; 

And sweeter too : 
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown. 
And cares can make the sweetest love to 
frown. 5 



Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain. 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

His flocks are folded, he comes home at night, 
As merry as a king in his delight ; 10 

And merrier too : 
For kings bethink them what the state require, 
Where ^ shepherds careless carol by the fire. 

Ah then, ah then. 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 1 5 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat 
His cream and curds as doth the king his 
meat ; 

And blither too : 
For kings have often fears when they do sup, 
Where ^ shepherds dread "no poison in their 
cup. 

Ah then, ah then, 22 

If country loves such sweet desires do gain. 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween, 25 
As is a king in dalliance with a queen ; 

More wanton too : 
For kings have many griefs affects ^ to move, 
Where ^ shepherds have no greater grief than 
love. 

Ah then, ah then, 30 

If country loves such sweet desires do gain, 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound. 
As doth the king upon his bed of down ; 

More sounder too : 35 

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill. 
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill. 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain. 
What lady would not love a shepherd SA\'ain ? 

Thus with his wife he spends the year, as 
blithe 41 

As doth the king at every tide or sithe ; ^ 

And blither too : 
For kings have wars and broils to take in hand 
When shepherds laugh and love upon the 
land. 45 

Ah then, ah then, 
If country loves such sweet desires do gain. 
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ? 



^ a term of cndearmcnl = spoiled darling 



^ whereas ^ emotions ^ time 



A GROAT'S WORTH OF WIT 



133 



From A GROAT'S WORTH OF WIT, 

BOUGHT WITH A MILLION OF 

REPENTANCE 

On the other side of the hedge sat one that 
heard ^is sorrow, who getting over, came 
towards him, and brake off his passion. 
When he approached, he saluted Roberto in 
this sort. 

"Gentleman," quoth he, " (for so you seem) 
I have by chance heard you discourse some 
part of your grief ; which appeareth to be 
more than you wUl discover, or I can conceit.^ 
But if you vouchsafe^ such simple comfort 
"as my ability will yield, assure yourself that 
I will endeavour to do the best, that either may 
procure your profit, or bring you pleasure : 
the rather, for that I suppose you are a 
scholar, and pity it is men of learning should 
live in lack." 

Roberto wondering to hear such good words, 
for that this iron age affords few that esteem 
of virtue, returned him thankful gratulations, 
and (urged by necessity) uttered his present 
grief, beseeching his advice how he might be 
employed. "Why, easily," quoth he, "and 
greatly to your benefit : for men of my pro- 
fession get by scholars their whole living." 
"What is your profession?" said Roberto. 
"Truly, sir," said he, "I am a player." "A 
player," quoth Roberto, "I took you rather 
for a gentleman of great living, for if by out- 
ward habit men should be censured,^ I tell you 
you would be taken for a substantial man." 
"So am I, where I dwell (quoth the player), 
reputed able at my proper cost to buUd a 
windmill.* What though the world once went 
hard with me, when I was fain to carry my 
playing fardel ^ a-footback ; Tempora mutan- 
tiir,^ I know you know the meaning of it better 
than I, but I thus construe it ; it-is otherwise 
now ; for my very share in playing apparel 
will not be sold for two hundred pounds." 
"Truly (said Roberto) it is strange, that you 
should so prosper in that vain practice, for 
that it seems to me your voice is nothing 
gracious." "Nay then," said the player, 
"I mislikc your judgment: why, I am as 
famous for Delphrigus, and the King of 
Fairies, as ever was any of my time. The 
Twelve Labours of Hercules have I terribly 
thundered on the stage, and placed three scenes 

' conceive ^ supply to receive ^ judged * pro- 
verbially expensive ^bundle •'Times change 



of the Devil on the Highway to Heaven." 
"Have ye so? (said Roberto) then I pray you 
pardon me." " Nay, more (quoth the player), 
I can serve to make a pretty speech, for I was 
a country author ; passing at a moral,^ for 
it was I that penned the Moral of Man's Wit, 
the Dialogue of Dives, and for seven years 
space was absolute interpreter of the puppets. 
But now my almanac is out of date. 

The people make no estimation, 
Of Morals teaching education. 

Was not this pretty for a plain rhyme ex- 
tempore? if ye will, ye shall have more." 
"Nay it is enough," said Roberto, "but how 
mean you to use me?" "Why, sir, in making 
plays," said the other, "for which you shall be 
well paid, if you wiE take the pains." 



Here (gentlemen) break I off Roberto's 
speech ; whose life in most parts agreeing with 
mine, found one self punishment as I have 
done. Hereafter suppose me the said Ro- 
berto, and I will go on with that he promised : 
Greene wall send you now his groatsworth of 
vidt, that 2 never showed a mitesworth in his 
life : and though no man now be by to do me 
good, yet, ere I die, I will by my repentance 
endeavour to do all men good. 



And therefore (while life gives leave) will 
send warning to my old consorts,* which have 
lived as loosely as myself, albeit weakness will 
scarce suffer me to write, yet to my fellow 
scholars about this City, will I direct these 
few ensuing lines. 

To those Gentlemen his Quondam acquaintance, 

that spend their wits in making Plays, 

R. G. wisheth a better exercise, and 

wisdom to prevent his extremities. 

If woeful experience may move you (gentle- 
men) to beware, or unheard-of wretchedness 
entreat you to take heed, I doubt not but you 
will look back with sorrow on your time past, 
and endeavour with repentance to spend that 
which is to come. Wonder not (for with thee 
will I first begin), thou famous gracer of 
tragedians, that Greene, who hath said with 
thee like the fool in his heart, "There is no 
God," should now give glory unto his great- 

^ morality play - who ^ companions 



134 



ROBERT GREENE 



ness : for penetrating is his power, his hand 
Ues heavy upon me, he hath spoken unto me 
with a voice of thunder, and I have felt he 
is a God that can punish enemies. Why- 
should thy excellent wit, his gift, be so blinded, 
that thou shouldst give no glory to the giver ? 
Is it pestilent Machiavellian policy that thou 
hast studied ? O Punish ^ folly ! What are 
his rules but mere confused mockeries, able to 
extirpate in small time the generation of man- 
kind. For if Sic volo, sic jiibeo,^ hold in those 
that are able to command : and if it be lawful 
Fas ct nefas ^ to do anythmg that is beneficial, 
only tyrants should possess the earth, and they 
striving to exceed in tyranny, should each to 
other be a slaughter man ; till the mightiest 
outliving all, one stroke were left for Death, 
that in one age man's life should end. The 
brother ^ of this Diabolical Atheism is dead, 
and in his life had never the felicity he aimed 
at : but as he began in craft, lived in fear and 
ended in despair. Quam inscriitabilia sunt 
Dei jiidicia? ^ This murderer of many 
brethren had his conscience seared like Cain : 
this betrayer of Him that gave his life for him 
inherited the portion of Judas : this apostata 
perished as ill as Julian : and wilt thou, my 
friend, be his disciple? Look unto me, by 
him persuaded to that liberty, and thou shalt 
iind it an infernal bondage. I know the least 
of my demerits merit this miserable death, 
but willful striving against known truth, ex- 
ceedeth all the terrors of my soul. Defer 
not (with me) till this last point of extremity ; 
for little knowest thou how in the end thou 
shalt be visited. 

With thee I join young Juvenal, that biting 
satirist, that lastly with me together writ a 
comedy. Sweet boy, might I advise thee, 
be advised, and get not many enemies by 
bitter words : inveigh against vain men, for 
thou canst do it, no man better, no man so 
well : thou hast a liberty to reprove all, and 
none more ; for, one being spoken to, all are 
offended ; none being blamed, no man is in- 
jured. Stop shallow water still running, it 
will rage ; tread on a worm and it will turn : 
then blame not scholars vexed with sharp 
lines, if they reprove thy too much liberty 
of reproof. 

And thou no less deserving than the other 

^ Punic, treacherous ^ So I wish, so I command. 
^ whether right or wrong '' ? brocher = beginner 
^ How inscrutable are the judgments of God ! 



two, in some things rarer, in nothing inferior ; 
driven (as myself) to extreme shifts, a little 
have I to say to thee : and were it not an idola- 
trous oath, I would swear by sweet S. George, 
thou art unworthy better hap, sith ^ thou de- 
pendest on so mean a stay. Base minded 
men all three of you, if by my misei^ ye be 
not warned : for unto none of you, like me, 
sought those burrs to cleave : those puppets, 
I mean, that speak from our mouths, those 
antics garnished in our colours. Is it not 
strange that I, to whom they aU have been 
beholding: is it not like that you, to whom 
they all have been beholding, shall, were ye 
in that case that I am now, be both at once of. 
them forsaken ? Yes, trust them not : for 
there is an upstart Crow, beautified with our 
feathers, that with his Tiger's heart wrapped in 
a Player's hide, supposes he is as well able to 
bombast out a blank verse as the best of you : 
and being an absolute Johannes fac totum, is 
in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a 
country. that I might entreat your rare wits 
to be employed in more profitable courses : and 
let those Apes imitate your past excellence, 
and never more acquaint them with your ad- 
mired inventions. I know the best husband 
of you all will never prove an usurer, and the 
kindest of them aU will never prove a kind 
nurse : yet whilst you may, seek you better 
masters ; for it is pity men of such rare wits, 
should be subject to the pleasures of such rude 
grooms. 

In this I might insert two more, that both 
have writ against these buckram gentlemen : 
but let their o'V'vti works serve to witness 
against their own wickedness, if they per- 
severe to maintain any more such peasants. 
For other new comers, I leave them to the 
mercy of these painted monsters, who (I 
doubt not) will drive the best minded to de- 
spise them : for the rest, it skills not though 
they make a jest at them. 

But now return I again to you three, know- 
ing my misery is to you no news : and let me 
heartily entreat you to be warned by my 
harms. Delight not, as I have done, in irre- 
ligious oaths; for from the blasphemer's 
house a cvurse shall not depart. Despise 
drunkenness, which wasteth the wit, and 
maketh men all equal unto beasts. Fly lust, 
as the deathsman of the soul, and defile not 
the temple of the Holy Ghost. Abhor those 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 



135 



epicures, whose loose life hath made religion 
loathsome to your ears ; and when they sooth 
you with terms of mastership, remember 
Robert Greene, whom they have so often 
flattered, perishes now for want of comfort. 
Remember, gentlemen, your lives are like 
so many lighted tapers, that are with care de- 
livered to all of you to maintain ; these with 
wind-puffed wrath may be extinguished, which 
drunkenness put out, which negligence let fall : 
for man's time of itself is not so short, but it 
is more shortened by sin. The fire of my 
light is now at the last snuff, and the want of 
wherewith to sustain it, there is no substance 
left for life to feed on. Trust not then, I 
beseech ye, to such weak stays : for they are 
as changeable in mind, as in many attires. 
WeU, my hand is tired, and I am forced to 
leave vv'here I would begin ; for a whole book 
cannot contain these wrongs, which I am 
forced to knit up in some few lines of words. 

Desirous that you should live, though 

himself he dying, 

Robert Greene. 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE ^ 

(1564-1593) 

HERO AND LEANDER 

From THE FIRST SESTIAD 

On Hellespont, guilt}^ of true love's blood, 
In view and opposite two cities stood, 
Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might ; 
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight. 
At Sestos Hero dwelt ; Hero the fair, 
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair, 
And offer'd as a dower his burning throne, 
Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon. 
The outside of her garments were of lawn, 9 
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn ; 
Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a 

grove, 
Where Venus in her naked glory strove 
To please the careless and disdainful eyes 
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies ; 
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain. 
Made with the blood of wTetched lovers slain. 
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath, 
From whence her veil reach'd to the ground 

beneath ; 

^ See also p. 165. 



Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves, 
Whose workmanship both man and beast de- 
ceives. 
Many would praise the sweet smell as she 

past, 
When 'twas the odour which her breath forth 

cast; 22 

And there, for honey, bees have sought in vain, 
And, beat from thence, have hghted there 

again. 
About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone, 
Which, lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds 

shone. 
She ware no gloves ; for neither sun nor wind 
Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her 

mind. 
Or warm or cool them, for they took delight 
To play upon those hands, they were so white. 
Buskins of shells, all silver'd, used she, 31 
And branch'd with blushing coral to the knee ; 
Where sparrows perch'd of hollow pearl and 

gold, 
Such as the world would wonder to behold : 
Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills, 
Which as she went, would chirrup through the 

bills. 
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd, 
And, looking in her face, was strooken bhnd. 
But this is true ; so like was one the other. 
As he imagin'd Hero was his mother ; 40 

And oftentimes into her bosom flew. 
About her naked neck his bare arms threw. 
And laid his childish head upon her breast. 
And, with still panting rock, there took his rest. 
So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun. 
As Nature wept, thinking she was undone. 
Because she took more from her than she left, 
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft : 
Therefore, in sign her treasure suft'er'd wrack, 
Since Hero's time hath half the world been 

black. 
Amorous Leander, beautiful and young 5 1 
(Whose tragedy divine Musa^us sung), 
Dwelt at Abydos ; since him dwelt there none 
For whom succeeding times make greater 

moan. 
His dangling tresses, that were never shorn, 
Flad they been cut, and unto Colchos borne. 
Would have allur'd the venturous youth of 

Greece 
To hazard more than for the golden fleece. 
Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her 

Sphere ; 
Grief makes her pale, because she moves not 

there. 



136 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 



His body was as straight as Circe's wand ; 61 
Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand. 
Even as dehcious meat is to the taste, 
So was his neck in touching, and surpast 
The white of Pelops' shoulder : I could tell ye. 
How smooth his breast was, and how white 

his belly ; 
And whose immortal fingers did imprint 
That heavenly path with many a curious dint 
That runs along his back ; but my rude pen 
Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men, 70 
Much less of powerful gods : Let it suffice 
That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes ; 
Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his 
That leapt into the water for a kiss 
Of his ov/n shadow, and, despising many, 
Died ere he could enjoy the love of any. 
Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen, 
Enamour'd of his beauty had he been. 
His presence made the rudest peasant melt, 
That in the vast uplandish country dwelt ; 80 
The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with 

nought, 
Was mov'd with him, and for his favour 

sought. 
Some swore he was a maid in man's attire, 
For in his looks were all that men desire, — 
A pleasant-smiling cheek, a speaking eye, 
A brow for love to banquet royally ; 
And such as knew he was a man, would say, 
"Leander, thou art made for amorous play ; 
Why art thou not in love, and loved of all? 
Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own 

thrall." 
The men of wealthy Sestos every year, 91 
For his sake whom their goddess held so dear, 
Rose-cheek'd Adonis, kept a solemn feast. 
Thither resorted many a wandering guest 
To meet their loves ; such as had none at all 
Came lovers home from this great festival ; 
For every street, like to a firmament, 
Glister'd with breathing stars, who, where 

they went, 
Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem'd 
Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seem'd 100 
As if another Phaeton had got 
The guidance of the sun's rich chariot. 
But, far above the loveliest. Hero shin'd. 
And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind; 
For like sea-nymphs' inveigling harmony, 
So was her beauty to the standers by ; 
Nor that night-wandering, pale, and waterj?^ 

star^ 



(When yawning dragons draw her thirling ^ car 
From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky, 
Where, crown'd with blazing light and maj- 
esty, no 
She proudly sits) m^ore over-rules the flood 
Than she the hearts of those that near her 

stood. 
Even as, when gaudy nymphs pursue the 

chase. 
Wretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race, 
Lacens'd with savage heat, gallop amain 
From steep pine-bearing mountains to the 

plain, 
So ran the people forth to gaze upon her, 
And all that view'd her were enamour'd 

on her. 
And as, in fury of a dreadful fight, 
Their fellows being slain or put to flight, 120 
Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead- 

strooken, 
So at her presence all surpris'd and tooken, 
Await the sentence of her scornful eyes ; 
He whom she favours lives ; the other dies. 
There might you see one sigh ; another rage ; 
And some, their violent passions to assuage, 
Compile sharp satires ; but, alas, too late ! 
For faithful love will never turn to hate. 
And many, seeing great princes were denied, 
Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her died. 
On this feast-day — • O cursed day and hour ! — ■ 
Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower 
To Venus' temple, where unhappily. 
As after chanc'd, they did each other spy. 
So fair a church as this had Venus none : 
The walls were of discolour'd ^ jasper-stone. 
Wherein was Proteus carved ; and over-head 
A lively vine of green sea-agate spread, 
Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus 

hung, ■ 
And with the other wine from grapes out- 
wrung. 140 
Of crystal shining fair the pavement was ; 
The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass : 



And in the midst a silver altar stood : 
There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood, 
Vailed^ to the ground, veiling her eyelids 

close ; 
And modestly they opened as she rose. 160 
Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden 

head; 
And thus Leander was enamoured. 



the moon 



^ piercing the air - vari-colored ^ bent 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 



137 



Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gaz'd, 
Till with the fire that from his countenance 

blaz'd 
Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook : 
Such force and virtue hath an amorous look. 

It lies not in our power to love or hate, 
For will in us is over-rul'd by fate. 
When two are stript, long ere the course begin, 
We wish that one should lose, the other win ; 
And one especially do we affect 171 

Of two gold ingots, like in each respect : 
The reason no man knows, let it suffice. 
What we behold is censur'd^ by our eyes. 
Where both deliberate, the love is slight : 
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight ? 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

(1564-1616) 

From VENUS AND ADONIS 

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, 
Her rash suspect^ she doth extenuate;^ loio 
And that his beauty may the better thrive, 
With Death she humbly doth insinuate ; 

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and 
stories ; 

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories. 

"O Jove," quoth she, "how much a fool was I 
To be of such a weak and silly mind 
To wail his death who lives and must not die 
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ! 

For he being dead, with him is beauty slain. 
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. 

"Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear 102 1 
As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with 

thieves ; 
Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear, 
Thy coward heart with false bethinking 
grieves." 
Even at this v/ord she hears a merry horn, 
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. 

As falcon to the lure, away she flies ; 
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light ; 
And in her haste unfortunately spies 
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight ; 
Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the 
view, 1 03 1 

Like stars ashamed of day, themselves with- 
drew ; 

^ judged ^ suspicion ' lessen 



Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being 

hit. 
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with 

pain. 
And there, all smother 'd up, in shade doth sit, 
Long after fearing to creep forth again ; 
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fl.ed 
Into the deep dark cabins of her head ; 

Where they resign their office and their light 
To the disposing of her troubled brain ; 1040 
Who bids them still consort with ugly night, 
And never wound the heart with looks again ; 
Who, like a king perplexed in his throne. 
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan. 

Whereat each tributary subject quakes ; 

As when the wind, imprison 'd in the ground, 

Struggling for passage, earth's foundation 

shakes. 
Which with cold terror doth men's minds con- 
found. 
This mutiny each part doth so surprise 
That from their dark beds once more leap 
her eyes ; 1050 

And, being open'd, threw unwilling Hght 
Upon the wide wound that the boar had 

trench'd 
In his soft flank ; whose wonted lily white 
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was 

drench'd. 
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or 

weed. 
But stole his blood and seem'd with him to 

bleed. 

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth ; 
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head ; 
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth ; 
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead : 

Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow ; 

Her eyes are mad that they have wept till 
now. 10G2 

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly. 
That her sight dazzling makes the wovmd seem 

three ; 
And then she reprehends her mangling eye. 
That makes more gashes where no breach 

should be : 
His face seems twain, each several limb is 

doubled ; 
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being 

troubled. 



138 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 



"My tongue cannot express my grief for one, 
And yet," quoth she, " behold two Adons dead ! 
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone. 
Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead : 

Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red 
fire! 

So shall I die by drops of hot desire. 

"Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou 

lost ! 
What face remains alive that's worth the 

viewing ? 
Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou 

boast 
Of things long since, or any thing ensuing? 
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh 

and trim; 1079 

But true-sweet beauty lived and died with 

him. 

"Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear ! 
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you : 
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear ; 
The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth 
hiss you : 
But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air 
Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his 
fair : ^ 

"And therefore would he put his bonnet on. 

Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep ; 

The wind would blow it off and, being gone. 

Play with his locks : then would Adonis v^^eep ; 

And straight, in pity of his tender years, 

They both would strive who first should 

dry his tears. 1092 

"To see his face the lion walk'd along 
Behind some hedge, because he would not 

fear ^ him ; 
To recreate himself when he hath sung, 
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him ; 
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey 
And never fright the silly lamb that day. 

" When he beheld his shadow in the brook, 
The fishes spread on it their golden gills ; 
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, 
That some v/ould sing, some other in their bills 
Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red 

cherries; 1103 

He fed them with his sight, they him with 

berries. 

^ beauty ^ frighten 



"But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar. 
Whose dovv^nward eye still looketh for a grave, 
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore ; 
Witness the entertainment that he gave : 
If he did see his face, why then I know 
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him 
so. 

" 'Tis true, 'tis true ; thus was Adonis slain : 
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, 
Who did not whet his teeth at him. again, 1 1 13 
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there ; 
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine 
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin. 

"Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confe'ss, 
With kissing him I should have kill'd him first ; 
But he is dead, and never did he bless 1 1 1 9 
My youth vnth. his ; the more am I accurst." 
With this, she falleth in the place she stood, 
And stains her face with his congealed blood. 

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ; 

She takes him by the hand, and that is cold ; 

She whispers in his ears a heavy tale. 

As if they heard the woeful words she told ; 
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes. 
Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness 
lies; 

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld 
A thousand times, and now no more reflect ; 
Their virtue lost, wherein they late exceU'd, 
And every beauty robb'd of his effect : 1 1 3 2 
"Wonder of time," quoth she, "this is my 

spite. 
That, thou being dead, the day should yet 
be light. 

"Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy : 
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend : 
It shall be waited on with jealousy. 
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, 
Ne'er settled equally, but high or low, 1139 
That all love's pleasure shall not match his 
woe. 

"It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, 
Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ; 
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd^ 
With sweets that shafl the truest sight beguile : 
The strongest body shall it make most weak, 
Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to 
• speak. 

^ o'erstrewcd 



SONNETS 



139 



"It shall be sparing and too full of riot ; 
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; 
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, 
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with 
treasures ; 1 1 50 

It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, 
Make the young old, the old become a child. 

"It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; 
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust ; 
It shall be merciful and too severe, 
And most deceiving when it seems most just ; 

Perverse it shaU be where it shows most 
toward ; 

Put ^ fear to valour, courage to the coward. 

"It shall be cause of war and dire events. 
And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire ; 
Subject and servile to all discontents, 1 161 
As dry combustious matter is to fire : 

Sith in his prime ^ Death doth my love de- 
stroy, 
They that love best their loves shall not 
enjoy." 



SONNETS 

XII 

When I do coimt the clock that tells the time, 
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; 
When I behold the violet past prime, 
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; 
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves. 
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, 
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves 
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, 
Then of thy beauty do I question make. 
That thou among the wastes of time must go,' 
Since sweets and beauties do themselves for- 
sake 1 1 
And die as fast as they see others grow ; 
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make 

defence 
Save breed,' to brave him when he takes thee 
hence. 

XV 

When I consider every thing that grows 
Holds ^ in perfection but a httle moment, 
That this huge stage presenteth nought but 
shows 



Whereon' the stars in secret influence com- 
ment ; 
When I perceive that men as plants increase, 
Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky, 
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, 
And wear their brave state out of memory ; 
Then the conceit ^ of this inconstant stay 
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, 10 
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay, 
To change your day of youth to sullied night ; 
And all in war with Time for love of you, 
As he takes from you, I engraft you new. ■ 

XVII 

Who will believe my verse in time to come. 
If it were fiU'd with your most high deserts ? 
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb 
Which hides your life and shows not half your 

parts. 
If I could write the beauty of your eyes 
And in fresh numbers number all your graces. 
The age to come would say, "This poet lies; 
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly 

faces." 
So should my papers yellow'd with their age 
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than 

tongue, 
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage 1 1 
And stretched metre of an antique song : 
But were some child of yours alive that time, 
You should live twice; in it and in my 

rhyme. 

XXIX 

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries 
And look upon myself and curse my fate, 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. 
Featured like him, like him with friends 

possess'd. 
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising. 
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 10 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's 

gate; 
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth 

brings 
That then I scor-n to change my state with 

kings. 



1 give 2 youth ' offspring ^ remains 



^ conception, thought 



140 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 



XXX 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
And with old woes new wail my dear time's 

waste : 
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless 

night, 
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd 

woe, 
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd 

sight : 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 10 

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 
Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 
AU losses are restored and sorrows end. 

XXXII • 

If thou survive my well-contented day, 
When that churl Death my bones with dust 

shall cover, 
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey 
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover. 
Compare them with the bettering of the time, 
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, 
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme. 
Exceeded by the height of happier men. 
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought : 
"Had my friend's Muse grown with this grow- 
ing age, 10 
A dearer birth than this his love had brought, 
To march in ranks of better equipage : 
But since he died and poets better prove. 
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his 
love." 

LV 

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; 
But you shall shine more bright in these con- 
tents 
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish 

time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
And broils root out the work of masonry. 
Nor Mars his ^ sword nor war's quick fire shall 

burn 
The living record of your memory. 

^ Mars's 



'Gainst death and all-oblivious^ enmity 

Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still 
find room 10 

Even in the eyes of all posterity 

That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
So, tiU the judgement that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes. 

LXIV 

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced 
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age ; 
When sometime ^ lofty towers I see down -razed 
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage ; 
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 
And the firm soil win of the watery main, 
Increasing store with loss and loss with store ; 
V/hen I have seen such interchange of state, 
Or state itself confounded to decay ; 10 

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate. 
That Time will come and take my love away. 

This thought is as a death, which cannot 
choose 

But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 

LXV 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless 

sea, 
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power. 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, 
Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out 
Against the wreckful siege of battering days, 
When rocks impregnable are not so stout. 
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays ? 
O fearful meditation ! where, alack, 
Shall Time's best jewel from " Time's chest he 

hid? TO 

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot 

back? 
Or who his spoiH of beauty can forbid? 
O, none, unless this miracle have might. 
That in black ink my love may still shine 

bright. 

LXVI 

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, — 
As,^ to behold desert a beggar born, 
And needy nothing® trimm'd in jollity. 
And purest faith unhappily forsworn, 

^ blotting out all things - formerly ^ out of 
* spoiling ^ as, for example ^ i.e., one of no merit 



SONNETS 



141 



And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, 
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 
And right perfection wrongfidly disgraced, 
And strength by limping sway ^ disabled, 
And art made tongue-tied by authority. 
And folly doctor-like controlling skill, 10 

And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,' 
And captive good attending captain ill : 

Tired with all these, from these would I be 
gone, 

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 

LXXI 

No longer moum for me when I am dead 
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell 
Give warning to the world that I am fled 
From this vile world, with vilest worms to 

dwell : 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
The hand that writ it ; for I love you so 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot 
If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse 9 

When I perhaps compounded am with clay. 
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. 
But let your love even with my life decay, 

Lest the wise world should look into your 
moan 

And mock you with ^ me after I am gone. 

LXXIII 

That time of year thou mayst in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the 

cold. 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds 

sang. 
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by and by black night doth take away. 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire 
That on the ashes of his"* youth doth lie, 10 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd 
by. 
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love 

more strong. 
To love that well which thou must leave ^ 
ere long. 

^ power 2 foolishness ^ because of •* its = the 
fire's ^ give up 



XCVII 

How like a winter hath my absence been 
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year ! 
What freezings have I felt, what dark days 

seen ! 
What old December's bareness every where ! 
And yet this time removed was summer's time. 
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase. 
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime. 
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease : 
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me 9 

But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit; 
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, 
And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; 
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer 
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's 
near.i 

XCVIII 

From you have I been absent in the spring. 
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim 
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing. 
That 2 heavy Saturn laugh 'd and leap'd with 

him. 
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smeU 
Of different flowers in odour and in hue 
Could make me any summer's story tell. 
Or from their proud lap pluck them where 

they grew ; 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, 
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 10 
They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, 
As with your shadow, I with these did play. 



XCLX 

The forward violet thus did I chide : 

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet 

that smells, 
If not from my love's breath? The purple 

pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells 
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 
The lily I condemned for thy hand, 
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair. 
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 
One blushing shame, another white despair ; 
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both 
And to his robbery had anncx'd thy breath ; 1 1 

- nearness " so that 



142 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 



But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see 
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. 

CVI 

When in the chronicle of v/asted ^ time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights. 
Then, in the blazon ^ of sweet beauty's best, 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have express'd 
Even such a beauty as you master now. 
So aU their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; lo 

And, for 3 they look'd but with divining eyes. 
They had not skill enough your vi^orth to sing : 

For we, which now behold these present 
days. 

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to 
praise. 

CVII 

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, 
Can yet the lease of my true love control. 
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. 
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured 
And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; 
Incertainties now crown themselves assured 
And peace proclaim^s olives of endless age. 
Now with the drops of this most balmy time 9 
My love looks fresh, and Death to me sub- 
scribes,* 
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme. 
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : 
And thou in this shalt find thy monum_ent. 
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are 
spent. 

CIX 

O, never say that I was false of heart, 

Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.* 

As easy might I from myself depart 

As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie : 

That is my home of love : if I have ranged, 

Like him that travels I return again, 

Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, 

So that myself bring water for my stain. 



^ past ^description ^because 
* diminish 



* submits 



Never beheve, though in my nature reign'd 
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, 10 
That it could so preposterously be stain 'd, 
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; 
For nothing this wide universe I call, 
Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all. 

CX 

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there 
And made myself a motley ^ to the view. 
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is 

most dear. 
Made old offences of affections new ; 
Most true it is that I have look'd on truth 
Askance and strangely; but, by all above. 
These blenches ^ gave my heart another youth, 
And worse essays proved thee my best of love. 
Now all is done, have what shall have no end : 
Mine appetite I never more will grind 10 
On newer proof, to try an older friend, 
A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.^ 
Then give me welcome, jiext my heaven the 

best. 
Even to thy pure and most most lovmg breast. 

CXI 

0, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. 
That did not better for my life provide 
Than public means which public manners 

breeds. 
Thence comes it that my name receives a 

brand. 
And almost thence my nature is subdued 
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. 
Pity me then and wish I were renew'd ; 
Whilst, like a Avilling patient, I will drink 
Potions of eisel •* 'gainst my strong infection ; 
No bitterness that I wiU bitter think, 11 
Nor double penance, to correct correction. 
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye 
Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 

CXVI 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration fiuids, 
Or bends with the remover to remove : 
O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 

^ fool 2 failures ^ bound ■* a bitter drink used 
as a prophylactic 



SONGS FROM THE PLAYS 



143 



That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark, 
Whose worth's^ unknown, although his height 

be taken. 
Love's not Time's fool,^ though rosy lips and 

cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come ; lo 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

CXLVI 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
[Amidst] these rebel powers that thee array, 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 
WTiy so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. 
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss. 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; lo 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more : 

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on 
men. 

And Death once dead, there's no more dying 
then. 



SONGS FROM THE PLAYS 
From LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 

\Vhen icicles hang by the wall. 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 

And milk comes frozen home in pail. 
When blood is nipped and ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
Tu-whit, tu-who ! a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel ^ the pot. 

When all aloud the wind dolh blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow. 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw, 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
Tu-whit, tu-who ! a merry note. 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 



From A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 

Over hill, over dale. 

Thorough ^ bush, thorough brier, 

Over park, over pale. 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 

I do wander everywhere. 

Swifter than the moones sphere; 

And I serve the Fairy Queen, 

To dew her orbs upon the green. 

The cowslips tall her pensioners ^ be ; 

In their gold coats spots you see : lo 

Those be rubies, fairy favours, 

In those freckles live their savours. 

I must go seek some dewdrops here. 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 



From TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 

Who is Silvia? what is she, 

That all our swains commend her ? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 

The heaven such grace did lend her. 

That she might admired be. 5 

Is she kind as she is fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love doth to her eyes repair 

To help him of his blindness, 
And, being help'd, inhabits there. 10 

Then to Silvia let us sing, 

That Silvia is excelling ; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
To her let us garlands bring. 15 



From THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

Tell me, where is fancy ^ bred. 
Or in the heart, or in the head? 
How begot, how nourished? 
Reply, reply. 

It is engendered in the eyes, 5 

With gazing fed ; and fancy dies 
In the cradle where it lies : 
Let us all ring fancy's knell ; 
I'll begin it, — Ding-dong, bell. 

Ding, dong, bell. 10 



occult influence - dupe ^ cool, stir 



through - body-guard ^ romantic lo\-e 



144 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 



From AS YOU LIKE IT 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And turn ^ his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! 5 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 10 

Seeking the food he eats 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! 
Here shall he see 

No enemy 15 

But winter and rough weather. 



From AS YOU LIKE IT 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind ! 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art not seen, 5 

Although thy breath be rude. 

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green 

holly: 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere 
folly: 
Then, heigh ho, the holly ! 
This life is most jolly. 10 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ! 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot ; 
Though thou the v/aters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 15 

As friend remembered not. 

Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! etc. 



From MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ! 

Men were deceivers ever. 
One foot in sea and one on shore, 

To one thing constant never : 

^ adapt 



Then sigh not so, but let them go, 
And*be you biithe and bonny. 

Converting all your sounds of woe 

Into Hey nonny, nonny ! 8 

Sing no more ditties, sing no m_oe ^ 

Of dumps so .duU and hea\'y ! 
The fraud of men was ever so, 

Since summer first was leavy : 
Then sigh not so, but let them go, 

And be you blithe and bonny. 
Converting all your sounds of woe 

Into Hey nonny, nonny ! 16 



From TWELFTH NIGHT 

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high and low : 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting. 
Journeys end in lovers meeting. 

Every wise man's son doth know. 6 

"What is love ? 'tis not hereafter ; 
Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What's to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no plenty ; 
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty ,2 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 12 



From TWELFTH NIGHT 

Come away,^ come away, Death ! 

And in sad cypress ^ let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath ; 

I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, 

O, prepare it ! 
My part of death, no one so true 

Did share it. 8 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 

On my black cofhn let there be strown ; 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be 
thrown : 
A thousand thousand sighs to save. 

Lay me, O, where 
Sad true lover never find my grave, 

To weeo there ! 16 



^ more ^ often and often ^ come here * 
used for funerals 



a crape 



SONGS FROM THE PLAYS 



145 



From HAMLET 

How should I your true love know 

From another one? 
By his cockle hat and staff, 

And his sandal shoon. 

He is dead and gone, lady, 

He is dead and gone ; 
At his head a grass-green turf, 

At his heels a stone. 

White his shroud as the mountain snow. 

Larded^ with sweet flowers, 
Which bewept to the grave did go 

With true-love showers. 



From MEASURE FOR MEASURE 

Take, 0, take those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
And those ej^es, the break of day. 

Lights that do mislead the morn : 
But my kisses bring again. 

Bring again ; 
Seals of love, but sealed in vain. 
Sealed in vain ! 



From CYMBELINE 

Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 

And Phoebus ^ 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies ; 4 

And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden ej^es : 
With every thing that pretty is, 

My lady sweet, arise ! 8 

Arise, arise ! 

From CYMBELINE 

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta'en th}' wages : 

Golden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 6 

Fear no more the frown 0' th' great ; 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 



Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 
The Sceptre, Learning, Physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 12 

Fear no more the lightning-flash. 
Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone ; ^ 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 

All lovers young, all lovers must 

Consign^ to thee, and come to dust. 18 

No exorciser harm thee ! 

Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 

Nothing ill come near thee ! 
Quiet consummation have ; 
And renowned be thy grave ! 24 

From THE TEMPEST 
A SEA DIRGE 

Full fathom five thy father lies : 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea change 5 

Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 

Ding-dong ! 
Hark ! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell ! 

From THE TEMPEST 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 

In a cowslip's beU I lie ; 

There I couch when owls do cry. 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After summer merrily. 5 

Merrfly, merrily, shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 



GEORGE CHAPMAN (i559?-i634) 

From THE TWELFTH BOOK OF 
HOMER'S ODYSSEYS 

This said, the golden-throned Aurora rose, 
She^ her way went, and I did mine dispose 220 
Up to my ship, weigh'd anchor, and away. 
When reverend Circe help'd us to convey 



^ covered 



' the sun 



^thunder-bolt ^surrender ^ Circe 



146 



GEORGE CHAPMAN 



Our vessel safe, by making well inclined 
A seaman's true companion, a forewind,^ 
With which she fiU'd our sails ; when, fitting all 
Our arms close by us, I did sadly fall 
To grave relation what concern'd in fate 
My friends to know, and told them that the 

state 
Of our affairs' success, which Circe had 
Presaged to me alone, must yet be made 230 
To one nor only two known, but to all ; 
That, since their lives and deaths were left to 

fall 
In their elections, they might life elect. 
And give what would preserve it fit effect. 

I first inform 'd them, that we were to fly 
The heavenly-singing Sirens' harmony, 
And flower-adorned meadow ; and that I 
Had charge to hear their song, but fetter'd fast 
In bands, unfavour'd, to th' erected mast ; 
From v\'hence, if I should pray, or use com- 
mand, 
To be enlarged, they should with much more 

band 
Contain my strugglings. This I simply told 
To each particular, nor would' withhold 243 
What most enjoin'd mine own affection's stay, 
That theirs the rather might be taught t' obey. 
In meantime flew our ships, and straight we 

fetch'd 
The Sirens' isle; a spleenless ^ wind so 

stretch'd 
Her wings to waft us, and so urged our keel. 
But having reach'd this isle, we could not feel 
The least gasp of it, it was stricken dead, 250 
And all the sea in prostrate slumber spread : 
The Sirens' devil charm'd aU. Up then flew 
My friends to work, strook sail, together drew, 
And under hatches stow'd them, sat, and plied 
Their polish'd oars, and did in curls divide 
The white-head waters. My part then came on : 
A mighty waxen cake I set upon, 
Chopp'd it in fragments with my sv/ord, and 

wrought 
With strong hand every piece, till all were soft. 
The great power of the sun J in such a beam 260 
As then flew burning from his diadem, 
To liquefaction help'd us. Orderly 
I stopp'd their ears : and they as fair did ply 
My feet and hands with cords, and to the mast 
With other halsers^ made me soundly fast. 
Then took they seat, and forth our passage 
strook. 
The foamy sea beneath their labour shook. 



^ favoral)le wind 



' gentle 



3 Ikv 



Row'd on, in reach of an erected^ voice, 
The Sirens soon took note, without our noise ; 
Tuned those sweet accents that made charms 
so strong, 270 

And these learn 'd nmnbers made the Sirens' 
song: 
"Come here, thou worthy of a world of praise, 
That dost so high the Grecian glory raise; 
Ulysses ! stay thy ship, and that song hear 
That none pass d ever hut it bent his car, 
But left him ravished and instructed more 
By us, than any ever heard before. 
For we know all things whatsoever were ' 
In wide Troy labour d; whatsoever there 
The Grecians and the Trojans both stistain'd 280 
By those high issues that the Gods ordain'd. 
And whatsoever all the earth can show 
T' inform a knowledge of desert, we know." 

This they gave accent in the s^veetest strain 
That ever open'd an enamour 'd vein.^ 
When my constrain'd heart needs would have 

mine ear 
Yet more delighted, force way forth, and hear. 
To which end I commanded with all sign 
Stern looks could make (for not a joint of mine 
Had power to stir) my friends to rise, and give 
My limbs free way. They freely strived to 

drive 
Their ship stiU on. When, far from will to 

loose, 
Eurylochus and Perimedes rose 293 

To wrap me surer, and oppress'd me more 
With many a halser than had use before. 
When, rowing on without ^ the reach of sound, 
My friends unstopp'd their ears, and me un- 
bound, 
And that isle quite we quitted. 

SAMUEL DANIEL (1562-1619) 

SONNETS TO DELIA 

XIX 

Restore thy tresses to the golden ore ; 
Yield Cytherea's son •* those arcs of love : 
Bequeath the heavens the stars that I 

adore ; 
And to the orient do thy pearls remove. 
Yield thy hands' pride unto the ivory white ; 
To Arabian odours give thy breathing 
sweet ; 

^ lifted, i.e. loud - burst from an enamored 
heart ^ beyond ' Venus' son, Cupid 



SAMUEL DANIEL 



147 



Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright ; 

To Thetis give the honour of thy feet. 
Let Venus have thy graces her resigned ; 

And thy sweet voice give back unto the 
spheres : 

But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind 

To Hyrcan tigers and to ruthless bears. 12 
Yield to the marble thy hard heart again ; 
So shalt thou cease to plague and I to pain. 



LIV 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: 
Relieve my languish, and restore the light ; 
With dark forgetting of my care, return ! 

And let the day be time enough to mourn 
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth : 
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, 
Without the torment of the night's un- 
truth. 

Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
To model forth the passions of the morrov/ ; 
Never let rising sim approve ^ you liars, 1 1 
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. 

StiU let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain ; 

And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 



LV 



Let others sing of knights and paladins 
In aged accents and untimely words ; 
Paint shadows in imagmary lines 
Which well the reach of their high wits 
records : 
But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes 
Authentic 2 shall my verse in time to 

come ; 
When yet th' unborn shall saj^, "Lo where 

she lies 
Whose beauty made him speak that else 
was dumb." 
These are the arcs, the trophies I erect. 
That fortify thy name against old age ; 10 
And these thy sacred virtues must protect 
Against the dark, and Tune's consuming 
rage. 
Though the error of my youth in them ap- 
pear. 
Suffice they shew I lived and loved thee 
dear. 



EPISTLE TO THE LADY MARGARET, 
COUNTESS OF CUMBERLAND 

He that of such a height hath built his mind, 
And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so 

strong. 
As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame 
Of his resolved pow'rs ; nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce, to wrong 
His settled peace, or to disturb the same : 
What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man sur- 
vey ! 

And with how free an eye doth he look down 
Upon these lower regions of turmoil 1 10 

Where all the storms of passions mainly beat 
On flesh and blood : where honour, pow'r, 

renown 
Are onl}^ gay afflictions, golden tofl ; 
Where greatness stands upon as feeble feet 
As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it so esteem. 

He looks upon the mightiest monarchs' 

wars 
But only as on stately robberies ; 
Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
Must be the right : the ill-succeeding mars 
The fairest and the best-fac'd enterprise. 21 
Great Pirate Pompey lesser pirates quails : 
Justice, he sees (as if seduced), stfll 
Conspires with pow'r, 'whose cause must not 

beiU. 

He sees the face of Right t' appear as 
manifold t- 
As are the passions of uncertain man ; 
Who puts it in all colours, all attires. 
To serve his ends, and make his courses hold. 
He sees, that let deceit work what it can. 
Plot and contrive base ways to high desires. 
That the aU-guiding Providence doth yet 31 
All disappoint, and mocks this smoke of wit. 

Nor is he mov'd with all the thunder- 
cracks 
Of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Pow'r, that proudly sits ^ on others' crimes ; 
Charg'd with inore crjnng sins than those he 

checks. 
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times, 



prove 



'authenticate 



^ as judge 



148 



MICHAEL DRAYTON 



Appal not him ; that hath no side at all, 
But himself, and knows the worst can fall. 40 

Altho' his heart, so near allied to earth, 
Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
Of troublous and distress'd mortality, 
That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
Affliction upon imbecUity : 
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
He looks thereon not strange, but as foredone. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses. 
And is encompass'd ; whilst as craft deceives, 
And is deceiv'd; whilst man doth ransack 
man, 51 

And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
And th' inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes : he looks thereon. 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
And bears no venture in impiety. 



MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631) 
IDEA 

IV 

Bright Star of Beauty ! on whose eyelids sit 
A thousand nymph-like and enamoured 

Graces, 
The Goddesses of Memory and Wit, 
Which there in order take their several places. 

In whose dear bosom, sweet delicious Love 
Lays down his quiver, which he once did bear, 
Since he that blessed paradise did prove ; 
And leaves his mother's lap, to sport him 
there. 

Let others strive to entertain with words ! 
My soul is of a braver mettle made: 10 

I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords. 
In me's that faith which Time cannot invade ! 

Let what I praise be still made good by 
you ! 

Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true ! 

XX 

An evil Spirit (your Beauty) haunts me still. 
Wherewith, alas, I have been long possest ; 
Which ceaseth not to attempt ^ me to each ill. 
Nor give me once, but one poor minute's rest. 

^ icmpt 



In me it speaks, whether I sleep or wake ; 
And when by means to drive it out I try, ■ 
With greater torments then it me doth take. 
And tortures me in most extremity. 

Before my face, it lays down my despairs. 
And hastes me on unto a sudden death ; 10 
Now tempting me, to drown myself in tears, 
And then in sighing to give up my breath. 

Thus am I stiU ^ provoked to every evil. 

By this good-wicked Spirit, sweet Angel- 
Devil. 

XXXVII 

Dear ! why should you command me to my 

rest, 
When now the night doth summon all to 

sleep ? 
Methinks this time becometh lovers best ! 
Night was ordained together friends to keep. 

How happy are all other living things, 
Which, through the day, disjoined by several 

flight. 
The quiet evening yet together brings. 
And each returns unto his Love at night ! 
O thou that art so courteous else to all, 
Why shouldst thou, Night, abuse me only 
thus? 10 

That every creature to his kind dost call. 
And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us ! 
Well could I wish it would be ever day ; 
If, when night comes, you bid me go away ! 

LXI 

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and 

part ! 
Nay, I have done ; you get no more of me ! 
And I am glad, yea, glad, with all my heart. 
That thus so cleanly I myself can free. 

Shake hands for ever ! Cancel all our 
vows ! 
And when we meet at any time again, 
Be it not seen in either of our brows, 
That we one jot of former love retain ! 

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 

When, his pulse failing. Passion speechless 

lies; 10 

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes, — 

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given 

him over. 
From death to life thou might'st him yet 
recover ! 

^ constantly 



ODE XII 



149 



ODE XII 

TO THE CAMBRO-BRITANS AND THEIR 
HARP, HIS BALLAD OF AGINCOURT 

Fair stood the wind for France, 
When we our sails advance ; 
Nor now to prove our chance . 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train 

Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 

Furnished in warlike sort, 10 

Marcheth towards Agincourt 

In happy hour ; 
Skirmishing, day by day, 
With those that stopped his way. 
Where the French general lay 

With all his power. 

Which, in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide. 

To the King sending ; 20 

Which he neglects the while, 
As from a nation vile. 
Yet, with an angry smile. 

Their fall portending. 



And turning to his men. 
Quoth our brave Henry then ; 
"Though they to one be ten 

Be not amazed ! 
Yet have we well begun : 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By Fame been raised ! 



30 



"And for myself," quoth he, 
"This my full rest shall be: 
England ne'er mourn for me. 

Nor more esteem me ! 
Victor I will remain. 
Or on this earth lie slain ; 
Never shall She sustain 

Loss to redeem me ! 

"Poitiers and Cressy tell, 
When most their pride did swell. 
Under our swords they fell. 

No less our skill is. 
Than when our Grandsire great. 



40 



Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 
Lopped the French lilies." 

The Duke of York so dread 

The eager vanward led ; 50 

With the main, Henry sped 

Amongst his henchmen : 
Exeter had the rear, 
A braver man not there ! 
O Lord, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen ! 

They now to fight are gone ; 
Armour on armour shone ; 
Drum now to drum did groan : 

To hear, was wonder ; 60 

That, with the cries they make, 
The very earth did shake ; 
Trumpet to trumpet spake ; 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which didst the signal aim 

To our hid forces ! 
When, from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly, 70 

The English archery 

Stuck the French horses. 

With Spanish yew so strong ; 
Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
That like to serpents stung. 

Piercing the weather. 
None from his fellow starts ; 
But, playing manly parts. 
And like true English hearts. 

Stuck close together. 80 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilboes^ drew, 
And on the French they flew : 

Not one was tard3^ 
Arms were from shoulders sent ,2 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went : 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble King, 
His broad sword brandishing, 90 

Down the French host did ding. 
As to o'erwhelm it. 



^ swords 



torn 



I50 



FRANCIS BACON 



And many a deep wound lent ; 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent 
Bruised his helmet. 

Gloucester, that duke so good, 
Next of the royal blood, 
For famous England stood 

With his brave brother. 
Clarence, in steel so bright. 
Though but a maiden knight, 
Yet in that furious fight 

Scarce such another ! 

Warwick in blood did wade ; 
Oxford, the foe invade. 
And cruel slaughter made, 

Still as they ran up. 
Suffolk his axe did ply ; 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily ; 

Ferrers, and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's Day 
Fought was this noble fray; 
Which Fame did not delay 

To England to carry. 
O when shall English m_en 
With such acts fill a pen ? ^ 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry ? 

From NYMPHIDIA 
THE COURT OF FAIRY 



The wheels composed of crickets' bones, 
And daintily made for the nonce ; 
For fear of rattling on the stones 

With thistle-down they shod it ; 
For all her maidens much did fear 
If Oberon had chanc'd to hear 150 

That Mab his Queen should have been there, 

He would not have abode it. 

She mounts her chariot with a trice, 
Nor would she stay, for no advice. 
Until her maids that were so nice 

To wait on her were fitted ; 
But ran herself away alone. 
Which when they heard, there was not one 
But hasted after to be gone. 

As she had been diswitted. 160 

Hop and Mop and Drop so clear 
Pip and Trip and Skip that were 
To Mab, their sovereign, ever dear, 

Her special maids of honour ; 
Fib and Tib and Pink and Pin, 
Tick and Quick and Jill and Jin, 
Tit and Nit and Wap and Win, 

The train that wait upon her. 



Upon a grasshopper they got 

And, what with amble and with trot. 

For hedge nor ditch they spared not, 

But after her they hie them ; 
A cobweb over them they throw. 
To shield the wmd if it shoidd blow ; 
Themselves they wisely could bestow 

Lest any should espy them. 



170 



Her chariot ready straight is made 
Each thing therein is fitting laid, 
That she by nothing might be stayed. 

For nought must her be letting ; 
Four nimble gnats the horses were, 
Their harnesses of gossamer. 
Fly Cranion her charioteer 

Upon the coach-box getting. 

Her chariot of a snail's fine shell, 
Which for the colours did excel. 
The fair Queen Mab becoming well, 

So lively was the limning ; 
The seat the soft wool of the bee. 
The cover, gallantly to see, 
The wing of a pied butterflee ; 

I trow 'twas simple trimming. 

^ give a subject for praise 



130 FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626) 
ESSAYS 

I. OF TRUTH 

What is Truth? said jesting Pilate;^ and 
would not stay for an answer. Certainly 
there be that - delight in giddiness, and count 
it a bondage to fix a belief ; aft'ecting free-will 
in thinking, as well as in acting. And though 
140 the sects of philosophers of that kind be gone, 
yet there remain certain discoursing wits 
which are of the same veins,^ though there be 
not so much blood in them as was in those of 

^ Cf. John, xviii:38 ^ there arc those who 
^ the same waj^s of thinking 



ESSAYS 



151 



the ancients. But it is not only the difficulty 
and labour which men take in finding out of 
truth ; nor again that when it is found it im- 
poseth upon men's thoughts ; that doth bring 
lies in favour ; but a natural though corrupt 
love of the lie itself. One of the later school of 
the Grecians examineth the matter, and is at 
a stand to think what should be in it, that men 
should love lies, where neither they make for 
pleasure, as with poets, nor for advantage, as 
with the merchant ; but for the lie's sake. 
But I cannot tell : this same truth is a naked 
and open day-light, that doth not show the 
masks and mummeries and triumphs of the 
world, half so stately and daintily as candle- 
lights. Truth may perhaps come to the price 
of a pearl, that showeth best by day; but it 
will not rise to the price of a diamond or car- 
buncle, that showeth best in varied lights. A 
mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure. Doth 
any man doubt, that if there were taken out 
of men's minds vain opinions, flattering 
hopes, false valuations, imaginations as one 
would, and the like, but it would leave the 
minds of a number of men poor shrunken 
things, full of melancholy and indisposition, 
and unpleasing to themselves? One of the 
Fathers, in great severity, called poesy vinwn 
dcEmonmn,^ because it filleth the imagination ; 
and yet it is but with the shadow of a lie. 
But it is not the lie that passeth through the 
mind, but the lie that sinketh in and settleth 
in it, that doth the hurt ; such as we spake of 
before. Bvit howsoever these things are thus 
in men's depraved judgments and affections, 
yet truth, which only doth judge itself, 
teacheth that the inquiry of truth, which is 
the love-making or wooing of it, the knowl- 
edge of truth, which is the presence of it, and 
the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, 
is the sovereign good of human nature. The 
first creature of God, in the works of the days, 
was the light of the sense ; the last was the 
light of reason ; and his Sabbath work ever 
since, is the illumination of his Spirit. First 
he breathed light upon the face of the matter 
or chaos ; then he breathed light into the face 
of man ; and still he breatheth and inspireth 
light into the face of his chosen. The poet ^ 
that beautified the sect ^ that was otherwise 
inferior to the rest, saith yet excellently well: 
li is a pleasure to sta?id upon the share, and to 
see ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to 



stand in the window of a castle, and to see a 
battle and the adventures thereof below; but no 
pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the 
vantage ground of Truth, (a hill not to be com- 
manded,^ and where the air is always clear and 
serene,) and to see the errors, and wanderings, 
and mists, and tempests, in the vale below; 
so always that this prospect be with pity, 
and not with swelling or pride. Certainly, 
it is heaven upon earth, to have a man's mind 
move in charity, rest in providence, and turn 
upon the poles of truth. 

To pass from theological and philosophical 
truth, to the truth of civil business ; it will be 
acknowledged even by those that practise it 
not, that clear and round dealing is the honour 
of man's nature ; and that mixture of false- 
hood is like allay ^ in coin of gold and silver, 
which may make the metal work the better, 
but it embaseth it. For these winding and 
crooked courses are the goings of the serpent ; 
which goeth basely upon the belly, and not 
upon the feet. There is no vice that doth so 
cover a man with shame as to be found false 
and perfidious. And therefore Montaigne 
saith prettily, when he inquired the reason, 
why the word of the lie should be such a dis- 
grace, and such an odious charge? Saith he, 
// it be well weighed, to say that a man lieth, is 
as much to say, as Uiat he is brave towards God 
and a coward towards men. For a he faces 
God, and shrinks from man. Surely the 
wickedness of falsehood and breach of faith 
cannot possibly be so highl}^ expressed, as in 
that it shall be the last peal to call the judg- 
ments of God upon the generations of men ; 
it being foretold, that when Christ cometh, 
he shall not find faith upon the earth. 



VIII. OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE 
LIFE 

He that hath wife and children hath given 
hostages to fortune ; for they are impediments 
to great enterprises, either of virtue or mis- 
chief. Certainly the best works, and of great- 
est merit for the public, have proceeded from 
the unmarried or childless men ; which both 
in aft"ection and means have married and en- 
dowed the public. Yet it were great reason 
that those that have children should have 
greatest care of future times ; unto which they 



^ devils' wine ^ Lucretius ^ Epicureans 



^ looked down on from a higher ^ alloy 



152 



FRANCIS BACON 



know they must transmit their dearest pledges. 
Some there are, who though they lead a single 
life, yet their thoughts do end with themselves, 
and account future times impertinences.^ 
Nay, there are some other that account wife 
and children but as bills of charges. Nay 
more, there are some foolish rich covetous 
men, that take a pride in having no children, 
because they may be thought so much the 
richer. For perhaps they have heard some 
talk. Such a one is a great rich man, and an- 
other except to it, Yea, but he hath a great 
charge of children ; as if it were an abatement 
to his riches. But the most ordinary cause of 
a single life is liberty, especially in certain 
self -pleasing and humorous ^ minds, which 
are so sensible of every restraint, as they will 
go near to think their girdles and garters to be 
bonds and shackles. Unmarried men are best 
friends, best masters, best servants ; but not 
always best subjects ; for they are light to 
run away ; and almost all fugitives are of that 
condition. A single life doth well with 
churchmen ; for charity will hardly water 
the ground where it must first fill a pool. It 
is indifferent for judges and magistrates; for 
if they be facile and corrupt, you shall have 
a servant five times worse than a wife. For 
soldiers, I find the generals commonly in 
their hortatives^ put men in mind of their 
wives and children ; and I think the despis- 
ing of marriage amongst the Turks maketh 
the vulgar soldier more base. Certainly wife 
and children are a kind of discipline of hu- 
manity ; and single men, though they may be 
many times more charitable, because their 
means are less exhaust, yet, on the other 
side, they are more cruel and hardhearted 
(good to make severe inquisitors), because 
their tenderness is not so oft called upon. 
Grave natures, led by custom, and therefore 
constant, are commonly loving husbands ; as 
was said of Ulysses, vetulam suam prcetiilit 
immortalitati^ Chaste women are often 
proud and f reward, as presuming upon the 
merit of their chastity. It is one of the best 
bonds both of chastity and obedience in the 
wife, if she think her husband wise ; which 
she will never do if she find him jealous. 
Wives are young men's mistresses; compan- 
ions for middle age; and old men's nurses. 

^ things which do not concern them ^ notionate 
® exhortations ■* He preferred his old wife to im- 
mortality. 



So as a man may have a quarrel^ to marry 
when he will. But yet he was reputed one 
of the wise men, that made answer to the 
question, when a man should marry? A 
young man not yet, an elder fnan not at all. 
It is often seen that bad husbands have very 
good wives ; whether it be that it raiseth the 
price of their husband's kindness when it 
comes ; or that the wives take a pride in their 
patience. But this never fails, if the bad 
husbands were of their own choosing, against 
their friends' consent ; for then they will be 
sure to make good their own folly. 

XI. OF GREAT PLACE 

Men in great place are thrice servants : 
servants of the sovereign or state ; servants of 
fame ; and servants of business. So as they 
have no freedom ; neither in their persons, 
nor in their actions, nor in their times. It is 
a strange desire, to seek power and to lose 
liberty : or to seek power over others and to 
lose power over a man's self. The rising unto 
place is laborious ; and by pains men come to 
greater pains ; and it is sometimes base ; and 
by indignities men come to dignities. The 
standing is slippery, and the regress is either 
a downfall, or at least an eclipse, which is a 
melancholy thing. Cum non sis qui f iter is, 
non esse cur velis vivere.^ Nay, retire men 
cannot when, they would, neither will they 
when it were reason; but are impatient of 
privateness, even in age and sickness, which 
require the shadow ; like old townsmen, that 
will be still ^ sitting at their street door, though 
thereby they offer age to scorn. Certainly 
great persons had need to borrow other men's 
opinions, to think themselves happy ; for if 
they judge by their own feeling, they cannot 
find it : but if they think with themselves 
what other men think of them, and that other 
men would fain be as they are, then they are 
happy as it were by report ; when perhaps 
they find the contrary within. For the}^ are 
the first that find their own griefs, though 
they be the last that find their own faults. 
Certainly men in great fortunes are strangers 
to themselves, and while they are in the puzzle 
of business they have no time to tend their 
health either of body or mind. Illi mors 

^ reason ^ When j^ou are no longer what you 
were, there is no reason why you should wish to 
live. ^ always 



ESSAYS 



153 



gravis incuhat, qui notus nimis omnibus, 
ignotiis moritur sibi} ■ In place there is li- 
cense to do good and evil ; whereof the latter 
is a curse : for in evil the best condition is 
not to will ; the second not to can. But 
power to do good is the true and lawful end 
of aspiring. For good thoughts (though God 
accept them) yet towards men are little better 
than good dreams, except they be put in act ; 
and that cannot be without power and place, 
as the vantage and commanding ground. 
]Merit and good works is the end of man's 
motion ; and conscience of the same is the 
accomplishment of man's rest. For if a 
man can be partaker of God's theatre, he 
shall likewise be partaker of God's rest. Et 
coiiversus Dciis, lit aspiceret opera quce fecerunt 
manus sua;, vidit quod omnia essent bona 
nimis; ^ and then the Sabbath. In the dis- 
charge of thy place set before thee the best 
examples ; for imitation is a globe ^ of precepts. 
And after a time set before thee thine own 
example ; and examine thyself strictly 
whether thou didst not best at first. Neglect 
not also the examples of those that have 
carried themselves iU in the same place ; not 
to set off thyself by taxing their memory, 
but to direct thyself what to avoid. Reform 
therefore, without bravery or scandal of 
former times and persons; but yet set it 
down to thyself as well to create good prece- 
dents as to follow them. Reduce things to 
the first institution, and observe wherein and 
how they have degenerate ; ^ but yet ask 
counsel of both times ; of the ancient time, 
what is best ; and of the latter time, what is 
fittest. Seek to make thy course regular, 
that men may know beforehand what they 
may expect ; but be not too positive and 
peremptory ; and express thyself well when 
thou digressest from thy rule. Preserve the 
right of thy place ; but stir not questions of 
jurisdiction: and rather assume thy right in 
silence and de facto, than voice it with claims 
and challenges. Preserve likewise the rights 
of inferior places ; and think it more honour 
to direct in chief than to be busy in all. Em- 
brace and invite helps and advices touching 
the execution of thy place ; and do not drive 

^ It is a sad fate for a man to die too well known 
to everybody else, and still unknown to himself. 
^ And God turned to look upon the works which 
his hands had made, and saw that all were very 
good. ^ world ■* degenerated 



away such as bring thee information, as 
meddlers; but accept of them in good part. 
The vices of authority are chiefly four; de- 
lays, corruption, roughness, and facility. 
For delays; give easy access; keep times 
appointed ; go through with that which is in 
hand, and interlace not business but of neces- 
sity. For corruption ; do not only bind thine 
own hands or thy servants' hands from tak- 
ing, but bind the hands of suitors also from 
offering. For integrity used doth the one; 
but integrity professed, and with a manifest 
detestation of bribery, doth the other. And 
avoid not only the fault, but the suspicion. 
Whosoever is found variable, and changeth 
manifestly without manifest cause, giveth 
suspicion of corruption. Therefore always 
when thou changest thine opinion or course, 
profess it plainly, and declare it, together 
with the reasons that move thee to change; 
and do not think to steal it. A servant or a 
favourite, if he be inward,^ and no other 
apparent cause of esteem, is commonly 
thought but a by-way to close corruption. 
For roughness; it is a needless cause of dis- 
content: severity breedeth fear, but rough- 
ness breedeth hate. Even reproofs from 
authority ought to be grave, and not taunting. 
As for facility; it is worse than bribery. 
For bribes come but now and then ; but if 
importunity or idle respects lead a man, he 
shall never be without. As Salomon saith, 
To respect persons is not good ; for such a man 
will transgress for a piece of bread. It is most 
true that was anciently spoken, ^4 place 
showeth the man. And it showeth some to 
the better, and some to the worse. Omnium 
consensu capax imperii, nisi imperasset,- saith 
Tacitus of Galba ; but of Vespasian he saith, 
Solus imperantium, Vespasianus mutatiis in 
melius: ^ though the one was meant of suffi- 
ciency, the other of manners and affection. 
It is an assured sign of a worthy and generous 
spirit, whom honour amends. For honour is, 
or should be, the place of virtue; and as in 
nature things move violently to their place 
and calmly in their place, so virtue in ambi- 
tion is violent, in authority settled and calm. 
All rising to great place is by a winding stair ; 
and if there be factions, it is good to side a 

' intimate ^ A man whom everybody would 
have thought fit for empire if he had not been 
emperor. * He was the only emperor whom the 
possession of power changed for the better. 



154 



FRANCIS BACON 



man's self whilst he is in the rising, and to 
balance himself when he is placed. Use the 
memoty of thy predecessor fairly and ten- 
derly ; for if thou dost not, it is a debt will 
sure be paid when thou art gone. If thou 
have colleagues, respect them, and rather call 
them when they look not for it, than exclude 
them when they have reason to look to be 
called. Be not too sensible or too remember- 
ing of thy place in conversation and private 
answers to suitors ; but let it rather be said, 
When he sits in place he is another man. 

XVI. OF ATHEISM 

I had rather believe all the fables in the 
Legend, and the Talmud, and the Alcoran, 
than that this universal frame is without a 
mind. And therefore God never wrought 
miracle to convince atheism, because his ordi- 
narjr works convince it. It is true, that a little 
philosophy inclineth man's mind to atheism ; 
but depth in philosophy bringeth men's minds 
about to religion. For while the mind of man 
looketh upon second causes scattered, it may 
sometimes rest in them, and go no further; 
but when it beholdeth the chain of them, con- 
federate and linked together, it must needs 
fly to Providence and Deity. Nay, even that 
school which is most accused of atheism doth 
most demonstrate religion ; that is, the school 
of Leucippus and Democritus and Epicurus. 
For it is a thousand times more credible, that 
four mutable elements, and one immutable 
fifth essence, duly and eternally placed,^ need 
no God, than that an army of infinite small 
portions or seeds unplaced,^ should have pro- 
duced this order and beauty without a divine 
marshal. The Scripture saith, The fool hath 
said in his heart, there is no God; it is not said. 
The fool hath thought in his heart; so as he 
rather saith it by rote to himself, as that^ he 
would have, than that he can throughly be- 
lieve it, or be persuaded of it. For none 
deny there is a God, but those for whom it 
maketh ■* that there were no God. It ap- 
peareth in nothing more, that atheism is 
rather in the lip than in the heart of man, 
than by this ; that atheists will ever be talk- 
ing of that their opinion, as if they famted in 
it within themselves, and would be glad to be 

^ the current theory in Bacon's time ^ the 
theory ascribed to the philosophers just mentioned 
^ what ^ would be advantageous 



strengthened by the consent of others. Nay 
more, you shall have atheists strive to get 
disciples, as it fareth with other sects. And, 
which is most of all, you shall have of them 
that wUl suffer for atheism, and not recant ; 
whereas if they did truly think that there 
were no such thing as God, why should they 
trouble themselves? Epicurus is charged 
that he did but dissemble for his credit's 
sake, when he afiirmed there were blessed 
natures, but such as enjoyed themselves 
without having respect to the government of 
the world. Wherein they say he did tempo- 
rise; though in secret he thought there was 
no God. But certainly he is traduced ; for 
his words are noble and divine : Non Deos 
vulgi negare profanum ; sed vulgi opiniones 
Diis applicare profanum} Plato could have 
said no more. And although he had the con- 
fidence to deny the administration, he had not 
the power to deny the nature. The Indians 
of the west have names for their particular 
gods, though they have no name for God : as 
if the heathens should have had the names 
Jupiter, ApoUo, Mars, etc., but not the word 
Deus ; which shows that even those barbar- 
ous people have the notion, though they have 
not the latitude and extent of it. So that 
against atheists the very savages take part 
with the very subtlest philosophers. The 
contemplative atheist is rare: a Diagoras, a 
Bion, a Lucian perhaps, and some others; 
and yet they seem to be more than they are ; 
for that all that impugn a received religion 
or superstition are by the adverse part 
branded with the name of atheists. But the 
great atheists indeed are hypocrites; which 
are ever handling holy things, but without 
feeling ; so as they must needs be cauterised ^ 
in the end. The causes of atheism are: 
divisions in religion, if they be many; for 
any one main division addeth zeal to both 
sides ; but many divisions introduce atheism. 
Another is, scandal of priests ; when it is come 
to that which St. Bernard saith, Non est jam 
dicere, ut popidus sic saccrdos ; quia nee sic 
populus ut saccrdos.^ A third is, custom of 
profane scoifing in holy matters ; which doth 

^ There is no profanity in refusing to believe in 
the Gods of the vulgar ; the profanitj^ is in believ- 
ing of the Gods what the vulgar believe of them. 
^ made callous ^ One cannot now saj^, the priest 
is as the people, for the truth is that the people 
are not so bad as the priest. 



ESSAYS 



IS5 



by little and little deface the reverence of 
religion. And lastly, learned times, specially 
with peace and prosperity ; for troubles and 
adversities do more bow men's minds to reli- 
gion. They that deny a God destroy man's 
nobility ; for certainly man is of kin to the 
beasts by his body ; and, if he be not of kin 
to God by his spirit, he is a base and ignoble 
creature. It destroys likewise magnanimity, 
and the raising of human nature ; for take an 
example of a dog, and mark what a generosity 
and courage he will put on when he finds 
himself maintained by a man ; who to him 
js instead of a God, or niclior natura ; ^ which 
courage is manifestly such as that creature, 
without that confidence of a better nature 
than his own, could never attain. So man, 
when he resteth and assureth himself upon 
divine protection and favour, gathereth a 
force and faith which human nature in itself 
could not obtain. Therefore, as atheism is 
in all respects hateful, so in this, that it de- 
priveth human nature of the means to exalt 
itself above human frailty. As it is in par- 
ticular persons, so it is in nations. Never 
was there such a state for magnanimity as 
Rome. Of this state hear what Cicero saith : 
Quam volumus licet, patres conscripti, nos 
amemus, tamen nee mimero Hispanos, nee 
rohore Gallos, nee ealliditate Pcenos, nee 
artihus Gireeos, nee denique hoe ipso hiijus gentis 
et tcrrcB domestieo nativoque sensu Italos ipsos 
et Latinos ; sed pietate, ae religione, atque hae 
una sapientia, quod Deorum immortalium 
numine omnia regi gubernarique perspeximns, 
omnes gcntes nationesque siiperavimus? 

XXIII. OF WISDOM FOR A MAN'S 
SELF 

An ant is a wise creature for itself, but it is 
a shrewd ^ thing in an orchard or garden. 
And certainly men that are great lovers of 

^ a higher being ^ Pride ourselves as we may 
upon our countrj^ yet are we not in number su- 
perior to the Spaniards, nor in strength to the 
Gauls, nor in cunning to the Carthaginians, nor to 
the Greeks in arts, nor to the Italians and Latins 
themselves in the homely and native sense which 
belongs to this nation and land ; it is in piety only 
and religion, and the wisdom of regarding the 
providence of the Immortal Gods as that which 
rules and governs all things, that we have sur- 
passed all nations and peoples. * bad 



themselves waste the public. Divide with 
reason between self-love and society ; and be 
so true to thyself, as thou be not false to 
others; specially to thy king and country. 
It is a poor centre of a man's actions, himself. 
It is right ^ earth. For that ^ only stands 
fast upon his own centre ; whereas all things 
that have affinity with the heavens, move 
upon the center of another, which they benefit. 
The referring of all to a man's self is more 
tolerable in a sovereign prince ; because them- 
selves are not only themselves, but their good 
and evil is at the peril of the public fortune. 
But it is a desperate evil in a servant to a 
prince, or a citizen in a repubUc. For what- 
soever affairs pass such a man's hands, he 
crooketh them to his own ends ; which must 
needs be often eccentric to ^ the ends of his 
master or state. Therefore let princes, or 
states, choose such servants as have not this 
mark ; except they mean their service should 
be made but the accessary. That which 
maketh the effect more pernicious is that all 
proportion is lost. It were disproportion 
enough for the servant's good to be preferred 
before the master's; but yet it is a greater 
extrem.e, when a httle good of the servant 
shall carry things against a great good of 
the master's. And yet that is the case of bad 
officers, treasurers, ambassadors, generals, and 
other false and corrupt servants ; which set a 
bias * upon their bowl, of their own petty ends 
and envies, to the overthrow of their master's 
great and important affairs. And for the 
most part, the good such servants receive is 
after the model ^ of their own fortune ; but the 
hurt they sell for that good is after the model 
of their master's fortune. And certainly it is 
the nature of extreme self-lovers, as they 
vvill set an house on fire, and it were but to 
roast their eggs; and yet these men many 
times hold credit with their masters, because 
their study is but to please them and profit 
themselves; and for either respect they will 
abandon the good of their affairs. 

Wisdom for a man's self is, in many 
branches thereof, a depraved thing. It is 
the wisdom of rats, that will be sure to leave 
a house somewhat before it fall. It is the 
wisdom of the fox, that thrusts out the badger, 

^ very ^ the earth, according to the Ptolemaic 
theory ^ not having the same centre as ■* a weight 
placed in a bowl (ball for bowling) to make it take 
a curved course * size 



156 



FRANCIS BACON 



who digged and made room for him. It is 
the wisdom of crocodiles, that shed tears 
when they would devour. But that which 
is specially to be noted is, that those which 
(as Cicero says of Pompey) are sui amantes, 
sine rivali,'- are many times unfortunate. 
And whereas they have all their time sacri- 
ficed to themselves, they become in the end 
themselves sacrifices to the inconstancy of 
fortune ; whose wings they thought by their 
self-wisdom to have pinioned. 

XXVII. OF FRIENDSHIP 

It had been hard for him that spake it to 
have put more truth and untruth together in 
few words, than in that speech, Whosoever is 
delighted in solitude is either a wild least or a 
god. For it is most true that a natural and 
secret hatred and aversation towards society 
in any man, hath somewhat of the savage 
beast ; but it is most untrue that it should 
have any character at all of the divine nature ; 
except it proceed, not out of a pleasure in 
solitude, but out of a love and desire to se- 
quester a man's self for a higher conversa- 
tion: such as is found to have been falsely 
and feignedly in some of the heathen ; as 
Epimenides the Candian, Numa the Roman, 
Empedocles the Sicilian, and ApoUonius of 
Tyana ; and truly and really in divers of the 
ancient hermits and holy fathers of the church. 
But little do men perceive what solitude is, 
and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is 
not company ; and faces are but a gallery of 
pictures ; and talk but a tinkling cymbal, 
where there is no love. The Latin adage 
meeteth with it a httle: Magna civitas, 
magna solitiido,^ because in a great town 
friends are scattered ; so that there is not that 
fellowship, for the most part, which is in less 
neighbourhoods. But we may go further, 
and affirm most triily that it is a mere and 
miserable solitude to want true friends; 
without which the world is but a wilderness ; 
and even in this sense also of solitude, who- 
soever in the frame of his nature and affec- 
tions is unfit for friendship, he taketh it of 
the beast, and not from humanity. 

A principal fruit of friendship is the ease 
and discharge of the fulness and swellings of 
the heart, which passions of all kinds do cause 

^ lovers of themselves, without rival ^ A great 
town is a frreat solitude. 



and induce. We know diseases of stoppings 
and suffocations are the most dangerous in 
the body ; and it is not much otherwise in the 
mind ; you may take sarza to open the liver, 
steel to open the spleen, flowers of sulphur for 
the lungs, castoreum for the brain; but no 
receipt ^ openeth the heart, but a true friend ; 
to whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears, 
hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever 
heth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind 
of civil 2 shrift or confession. 

It is a strange thing to observe how high a 
rate great kings and monarchs do set upon 
this fruit of friendship whereof we speak: so 
great, as they purchase it many times at the 
hazard of their own safety and greatness. 
For princes, in regard of the distance of th^ir 
fortune from that of their subjects and ser- 
vants, cannot gather this fruit, except (to 
make themselves capable thereof) they raise 
some persons to be as it were companions and 
almost equals to themselves, which many 
times sorteth to ^ inconvenience. The mod- 
ern languages give unto such persons the 
name of favourites, or privadoes ; ^ as if it 
were matter of grace, or conversation. But 
the Roman name attaineth the true use and 
cause thereof, naming them participes ciira- 
runi;^ for it is that which tieth the knot. 
And we see plainly that this hath been done, 
not by weak and passionate princes only, 
but by the wisest and most politic that ever 
reigned ; who have oftentimes joined to 
themselves some of their servants; whom 
both themselves have called friends, and al- 
lowed others likewise to call them in the same 
manner ; using the word which is received 
between private men. 

L. Sylla, when he commanded Rome, raised 
Pompey (after surnamed the Great) to that 
height, that Pompey vaunted himself for 
SyUa's over-match. For when he had carried 
the consulship for a friend of his, against the 
pursuit^ of Sylla, and that SyUa did a little 
resent thereat, and began to speak great, 
Pompey turned upon him again, and in effect 
bade him be quiet ; far that more men adored 
the sun rising than the sun setting. With 
Julius Csesar, Decimus Brutus had obtained 
that interest, as he set him down in his testa- 
ment for heir in remainder after his nephew. 
And this was the man that had power with 

^ recipe ^ non-religious ' results in '* intimates 
^ sharers of cares '^ candidacy 



ESSAYS 



157 



him to draw him forth to his death. For when 
Caesar would have discharged the senate, in 
regard of some ill presages, and specially a 
dream of Calpurnia ; this man lifted him 
gently .by the arm out of his chair, telling him 
he hoped he would not dismiss the senate till 
his wife had dreamt a better dream. And it 
seemeth his favour was so great, as Antonius, 
in a letter which is recited verbatim in one of 
Cicero's Philippics, calleth him venefica, witch ; 
as if he had enchanted Caesar. Augustus 
raised Agrippa (though of mean birth) to 
that height, as when he consulted with 
INIascenas about the marriage of his daughter 
Julia, Maecenas took the liberty to tell him, 
that he must either m^arry his daughter to 
Agrippa, or take away his life: there was no 
third way, he had made him so great. With 
Tiberius Caesar, Sejanus had ascended to that 
height, as they two were termed and reckoned 
as a pair of friends. Tiberius in a letter to 
him saith, Jicec pro amicitia nostra non occid- 
tavi ; ^ and the whole senate dedicated an 
altar to Friendship, as to a goddess, in re- 
spect of the great dearness of friendship be- 
tween them two. The like or more was be- 
tween Septimius Severus and Plautianus. 
For he forced his eldest son to marry the 
daughter of Plautianus; and would often 
maintain Plautianus in doing affronts to his 
son; and did write also in a letter to the 
senate, by these words : / love the man so well, 
as I wish he may over-live me. Now if these 
princes had been as a Trajan or a Marcus 
Aurelius, a man might have thought that this 
had proceeded of an abundant goodness of 
nature ; but being men so wise, of such 
strength and severity of mind, and so ex- 
treme lovers of themselves, as all these were, 
it proveth most plainly that they found their 
own felicity (though as great as ever hap- 
pened to mortal men) but as an half piece, 
except they mought ^ have a friend to make it 
entire ; and yet, which is more, they were 
princes that had wives, sons, nephews ; and 
yet all these could not supply the comfort of 
friendship. 

It is not to be forgotten what Commineus ^ 
observeth of his first master, Duke Charles 
the Hardy ; namely, that he would communi- 
cate his secrets with none; and least of all, 

* These things, because of our friendship, I 
have not concealed from you. ^ might ^ Philippe 
de Commines, a French statesman 



those secrets which troubled him most. 
Whereupon he goeth on and saith that towards 
his latter time that closeness did impair and a 
little perish his understanding. Surely Com- 
mineus mought have made the same judg- 
ment also, if it had pleased him, of his second 
master, Lewis the Eleventh, whose closeness 
was indeed his tormentor. The parable of 
Pythagoras^ is dark, but true; Cor ne edito: 
Eat not the heart. Certainly, if a man would 
give it a hard phrase, those that want friends 
to open themselves unto are cannibals of 
their own hearts. But one thing is most 
admirable (wherewith I will conclude this 
first fruit of friendship), which is, that this 
communicating of a man's self to his friend 
works two contrary effects ; for it redoubleth 
joys, and cutteth griefs in halfs. For there 
is no man that imparteth his joys to his 
friend, but he joyetli the more: and no man 
that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but 
he grieveth the less. So that it is in truth of 
operation upon a man's mind, of like virtue 
as the alchemists use to attribute to their stone 
for man's body; that it worketh all contrary 
effects, but still to the good and benefit of 
nature. But yet without praying in aid - of 
alchemists, there is a manifest image of this 
in the ordinary course of nature. For in 
bodies, union strengtheneth and cherisheth 
any natural action ; and on the other side 
weakeneth and dulleth any violent impres- 
sion : and even so is it of minds. 

The second fruit of friendship is healthful 
and sovereign for the understanding, as the 
first is for the affections. For friendship 
maketh indeed a fair day in the affections, 
from storm and tempests ; but it maketh day- 
light in the understanding, out of darkness 
and confusion of thoughts. Neither is this 
to be understood only of faithful counsel, 
which a man receiveth from his friend; but 
before you come to that, certain it is that who- 
soever hath his mind fraught with many 
thoughts, his wits and understanding do clar- 
ify and break up, in the communicating and 
discoursing with another; he tosseth his 
thoughts more easily ; he marshalleth them 
more orderly ; he seeth how they look when 
they are turned into words : finally, he waxeth 
wiser than himself ; and that more by an 
hour's discourse than by a day's meditation. 
It was well said by Themistocles to the king 

^ a Greek philosopher - calling in as advocates 



iS8 



FRANCIS BACON 



of Persia, That speech was like cloth of Arras, 
opened and put abroad; whereby the imagery 
doth appear in figure; whereas in thoughts 
they lie but as in packs. Neither is this sec- 
ond fruit of friendship, in opening the under- 
standing, restrained onJy to such friends as 
are able to give a man counsel ; (they indeed 
are best) ; but even without that, a man 
learneth of himself, and bringeth his own 
thoughts to light, and whetteth his wits as 
against a stone, which itself cuts not. In a 
word, a man were better relate himself to a 
statua ^ or picture, than to suffer his thoughts 
to pass in smother. 

Add now, to make this second fruit of friend- 
ship complete, that other point which lieth 
more open and falleth within vulgar ^ observa- 
tion ; which is faithful counsel from a friend. 
Heraclitus saith well in one of his enigmas. 
Dry light is ever the best. And certain it is, 
that the light that a man receiveth by counsel 
from another, is drier and purer than that 
which Cometh from his own understanding 
and judgment ; which is ever infused and 
drenched in his affections and customs. So as 
there is as much difference between the coun- 
sel that a friend giveth, and that a man 
giveth himself, as there is between the coun- 
sel of a friend and of a flatterer. For there is 
no such flatterer as is a man's self ; and there 
is no such remedy against flattery of a man's 
self, as the liberty of a friend. Counsel is of 
two sorts : the one concerning manners, the 
other concerning business. For the first, 
the best preservative to keep the mind in 
health is the faithful admonition of a friend. 
The calling of a mean's self to a strict account 
is a medicine, sometime, too piercing and 
corrosive. Reading good books of morality 
is a little fiat and dead. Observing our faults 
in others is sometimes unproper for our case. 
But the best receipt ^ (best, I say, to work, and 
best to take) is the admonition of a friend. 
It is a strange thing to behold what gross 
errors and extreme absurdities many (espe- 
cially of the greater sort) do commit, for want 
of a friend to tell them of them ; to the great 
damage both of their fame and fortune : for, 
as St. James saith, they are as men that look 
sometimes into a glass, and presently farget 
their own shape and favour. As for business, 
a man may think, if he will, that two eyes 
see no more than one ; or that a gamester 



statue 



common ^ prescription 



seeth always more than a looker-on ; or that 
a man in anger is as wise as he that laath said 
over the four and twenty letters ; or that a,- 
musket may be shot off as well upon the arm 
as upon a rest ; and such other fond and high 
imaginations, to think himself all in all'. But 
when all is done, the help of good counsel is 
that which setteth business straight. And if 
any man think that he will take counsel, but it 
shall be by pieces ; asking counsel in one busi- 
ness of one man, and in another business of 
another man ; it is well, (that is to say, better 
perhaps than if he asked none at all ;) but he 
runneth two dangers : one, that he shall not be 
faithfully counselled ; for it is a rare thing, 
except it be from a perfect and entire friend, 
to have counsel given, but such as shall be 
bowed and crooked to some ends which he 
hath that giveth it. The other, that he shall 
have counsel given, hurtful and unsafe, 
(though with good meaning,) and mixed partly 
of mischief and partly of remedy ; even as if 
you would call a physician that is thought 
good for the cure of the disease you complain 
of, but is unacquainted with your body ; and 
therefore may put you in way for a present 
cure, but overthroweth your health in some 
other kind ; and so cure the disease and kill 
the patient. But a friend that is wholly ac- 
quainted with a man's estate will beware, by 
furthering any present business, how he dash- 
eth upon other inconvenience. And there- 
fore rest not upon scattered counsels; they 
will rather distract and mislead, than settle 
and direct. 

After these two noble fruits of friendship 
(peace in the affections, and support of the 
judgment) foUoweth the last fruit ; which 
is like the pomegranate, full of many kernels ; 
I mean aid and bearing a part in all actions 
and occasions. Here the best way to repre- 
sent to life the manifold use of friendship, is 
to cast and see how many things there are 
which a man cannot do himself ; and then it 
wiU appear that it was a sparing speech of the 
ancients, to say, that a friend is another hiin- 
sclf; for that a friend is far more than himself. 
Men have their time, and die many times in 
desire of some things which they principally 
take to heart ; the bestowing of a child, the 
finishing of a work, or the like. If a man have 
a true friend, he may rest almost secure that 
the care of those things will continue after 
him. So that a man hath, as it were, two 
lives in his desires. A ipan hath a body, and 



ESSAYS 



159 



that body is confined to a place ; but where 
friendship is, all offices of life are as it were 
granted to him and his deputy. For he may 
exercise them by his friend. How many 
things are there Avhich a man cannot, with 
any face or comeliness, say or do himself? 
A man can scarce allege his own merits with 
modesty, much less extol them ; a man cannot 
sometimes brook to supplicate or beg ; and a 
number of the like. But all these things are 
graceful in a friend's mouth, which are 
blushing in a man's own. So again, a man's 
person hath many proper relations which he 
cannot put off. A man cannot speak to his 
son but as a father ; to his v/ife but as a hus- 
band ; to his enemy but upon terms : whereas 
a friend may speak as the case requires, and 
not as it sorteth ^ with the person. But to 
enumerate these things were endless ; I have 
given the rule, where a man cannot fitly play 
his own part ; if he have not a friend, he may 
quit the stage. 

XLII. OF YOUTH AND AGE 

A man that is young in years may be old in 
hours, if he have lost no time. But that hap- 
peneth rarely. Generally, youth is like the 
first cogitations, not so wise as the second. 
For there is a youth in thoughts, as well as in 
ages. And yet the invention of young men 
is more lively than that of old ; and imagina- 
tions stream into their minds better, and as it 
were more divinely. Natures that have much 
heat and great and violent desires and pertur- 
bations, are not ripe for action tiU they have 
passed the meridian of their years ; as it was 
with Julius Caesar, and Septimius Severus. 
Of the latter of whom it is said Juventutem 
egit errorihus, ivio furoribus, plenam? And 
yet he was the ablest emperor, almost, of all 
the list. But reposed natures may do well in 
youth. As it is seen in Augustus Caesar, 
Cosmus Duke of Florence, Gaston de Fois, 
and others. On the other side, heat and 
vivacity in age is an excellent composition 
for business. Young men are fitter to invent 
than to judge ; fitter for execution than for 
counsel ; and fitter for new projects than for 
settled business. For the experience of age, 
in things that fall within the compass of it, 
directeth them ; but in new things, abuseth 

^ agrees "^ He passed a youth full of errors ; 
yea, of madnesses. 



them. The errors of young men are the ruin 
of business ; but the errors of aged men 
amount but to this, that more might have 
been done, or sooner. Young men, in the 
conduct and manage of actions, embrace 
more than they can hold ; stir more than they 
can quiet ; fly to the end, without considera- 
tion of the means and degrees ; pursue some 
few principles which they have chanced upon 
absurdly ; care ^ not to innovate, which 
draws unknown inconveniences ; use extreme 
. remedies at first ; and, that which doubleth 
all errors, will not acknowledge or retract 
them ; like an unready horse, that will neither 
stop nor turn. Men of age object too much, 
consult too long, adventure too little, repent 
too soon, and seldom drive business home to 
the full period, but content themselves with 
a mediocrity of success. Certainly it is good 
to compound employments of both ; for that 
will be good for the present, because the vir- 
tues of either age may correct the defects of 
both; and good for succession, that young 
men may be learners, while men in age are 
actors ; and, lastly, good'for extern accidents, 
because authority followeth old men, and 
favour and popularity youth. But for the 
moral part, perhaps youth will have the pre- 
eminence, as age hath for the politic. A cer- 
tain rabbin, upon the text. Your young men 
shall see visions, and your old men shall dream 
dreams, inferreth that young men are admitted 
nearer to God than old, because vision is a 
clearer revelation than a dream. And cer- 
tainly, the more a man drinketh of the world, 
the more it intoxicateth : and age doth profit 
rather in the powers of understanding, than 
in the virtues of the will and affections. 
There be some have an over-early ripeness in 
their years, which fadeth betimes. These are, 
first, such as have brittle wits, the edge where- 
of is soon turned ; such as was Hermogenes the 
rhetorician, whose books are exceeding subtle ; 
who afterwards waxed stupid. A second sort 
is of those that have some natural dispositions 
which have better grace in youth than in age ; 
such as is a fluent and luxuriant speech ; which 
becomes youth well, but not age: so Tvilly 
saith of Hortensius, Idem- mancbat, neque idem 
deccbat? The third is of such as take too high 
a strain at the first, and are magnanimous 
more than tract of years can uphold. As 

^ hesitate. ^ He continued the same, when the 
same was not becoming. 



i6o 



MINOR POETRY 



was Scipio Africanus, of whom Livy saith in 
effect, Ultima, primis cedehant} 

MINOR POETRY 

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS 

My mind to me a kingdom is, 

Such present joys therein I find 
That it excels all other bliss 

That earth affords or grows by kind : 
Though much I want which most would have. 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 6 

No princely pomp, no wealthy store, 

No force to win the victory. 
No wily wit to salve a sore. 

No shape to feed a loving eye ; lo 

To none of these I yield as thrall : 
For why ? My mind doth serve for all. 



I see how plenty [surfeits] oft, 
And hasty chmbers soon do fall ; 

I see that those which are aloft 
Mishap doth threaten most of all ; 

They get with toil, they keep with fear : 

Such cares my mind could never bear. 

Content to live, this is my stay ; 

I seek no more than may suffice ; 
I press to bear no haughty sway ; 

Look, what I lack my mind supplies : 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king, 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 



15 



25 



Some have too much, yet still do crave 

I little have, and seek no more. 
They are but poor, though much they have. 

And I am rich with little store : 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I leave ; they pine, I live. 30 



I laugh not at another's loss ; 

I grudge not at another's pain ; 
No worldly waves my mind can toss ; 

My state at one doth still remain : 
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend ; 
I loathe not life, nor dread my end. 



35 



Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, 
Their wisdom by their rage of will ; 

Their treasure is their only trust ; 

A cloaked craft their store of skill : 40 

* His last actions were not equal to his first. 



But aU the pleasure that I find 
Is to maintain a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease ; 

My conscience clear my chief defence ; 
I neither seek by bribes to please, 4; 

Nor by deceit to breed offence : 
Thus do I live ; thus will I die ; 
Would all did so as well as I ! 

— Sir Edward Dyer (i55o?-i6o7) 

THE SILENT LOVER 



Passions are liken'd best to floods and 

streams : 
The shallow murmur, but the deep are 

dumb. 
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they 

come. 
They that are rich in words, in words discover 
That they are poor in that which makes a 

lover. 6 

II 

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, 

The merit of true passion, 
With thinking that he feels no smart. 

That sues for no compassion. 

Silence in love bewrays more woe 5 

Than words, though ne'er so witty : 

A beggar that is dumb, you know. 
May challenge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, 
My true, though secret passion ; 10 

He smarteth most that hides his smart, 
And sues for no compassion. 
— Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 ?-i6i8) 

THE CONCLUSION 

Even such is time, that takes in trust 

Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 
And pays us but Avith earth and dust ; 

Who in the dark and silent grave. 
When we have wander'd all our ways, 5 

Shuts up the story of our days : 
But from this earth, this grave, this dust. 
My God shall raise me up, I trust. 

— Sir Walter Raleigh (i552?-i6i8) 



MINOR POETRY 



i6i 



SONG OF PARIS AND CENONE 

CEnone. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 
As fair as any may be ; 
The fairest shepherd on our green, 
A love for any lady. 
Paris. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 5 
As fair as any may be ; 
Thy love is fair for thee alone, 
And for no other lady. 
ffiN. My love is fair, my love is gay. 

As fresh as bin the flowers in May, 
And of my love my roundelay, 1 1 

My merr}'-, merry roundelay. 
Concludes with Cupid's curse, — 

"They that do change old love for 
new. 
Pray gods they change for worse !" 15 
Ambo Simul. They that do change, etc. 
(En. Fair and fair, etc. 
Par. Fair and fair, etc. 

Thy love is fair, etc. 
CEn. My love can pipe, my love can sing, 20 
My love can many a pretty thing, 
And of his lovely praises ring 
My merry, merry roundelays, 

Amen to Cupid's curse, — 
"They that do change," etc. 25 

P.\R. They that do change, etc. 
Ambo. Fair and fair, etc. 

— George Peele (i558?-i597?) 

HARVESTMEN A-SINGING 

All ye that lovely lovers be. 

Pray you for me : 

Lo, here we come a-sowing, a-sowing. 

And sow sweet fruits of love ; 

In your sweet hearts well may it prove ! 5 

Lo, here" we come a-reaping, a-reaping, 
To reap our harvest-fruit ! 
And thus we pass the year so long, 
And never be we mute. 

— George Peele (i558?-i597?) 

FAREWELL TO ARMS 

His golden locks time hath to silver turned ; 

O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing ! 
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever 
spurned. 
But spurned in vain ; youth waneth by 
increasing : 



Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fad- 
ing seen ; 5 
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. 

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, 
And, lovers^ sonnets turned to holy psalms, 

A maji-at-arms must now serve on his knees, 
And feed on prayers, which are age his^ 
alms : 

But though from court to cottage he depart, 

His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 12 

And when he saddest sits in homely cell. 
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song, — 
"Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign 

well, 15 

Cursed be the souls that think her any 

wrong." 
Goddess, allow this aged man his right, 
To be your beadsman now that was your 

knight. 

— George Peele (is58?-iS97?) 

THE BURNING BABE 

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in 

the snow. 
Surprised I was with sudden heat which made 

my heart to glow ; 
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire 

was near, 
A pretty babe all burning bright did in the 

air appear. 
Who scorched with exceeding heat such floods 

of tears did shed, 5 

As though His floods should quench His 

flames with what ^ His tears were fed ; 
"Alas !" quoth He, "but newly born, in fiery 

heats I fry, 
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or 

feel my fire but I ! 
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel 

wounding thorns ; 
Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the 

ashes shame and scorns ; 10 

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows 

the coals ; 
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's 

defiled souls ; 
For which, as now on fire I am, to work them 

to their good. 
So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in 

my blood:" 



age's 



^ that with which 



l62 



ENGLAND'S HELICON 



With this He vanish'd out of sight, and swiftly 
shrunk away, 15 

And straight I called into mind that it was 
Christmas-day. 
— Robert Southwell (i56i?-iS95) 

CHERRY-RIPE 

There is a garden in her face 

Where roses and white hUes blow ; 
A heavenly paradise is that place. 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow : 

There cherries grow which none may 
buy S 

Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 

Those cherries fairly do enclose 
Of orient pearl a double row, 
Which when her lovely laughter shows, 9 

They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow ; 
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy 
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 

Her eyes like angels watch them still ; ^ 
Her brows hke bended bows do stand 
Threat 'ning with piercing frowns to kill 
All that attempt with eye or hand 16 

Those sacred cherries to come nigh 
Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. 
— Thomas Campion (d. 1619) 

ENGLAND'S HELICON (1600) 

PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON 

In the merry month of May, 

In a morn by break of day. 

Forth I walk'd by the wood-side, 

When as May was in his pride : 

There I spied all alone, 5 

PhyUida and Cory don. 

Much ado there was, God wot ! 

He would love and she would not. 

She said, never man was true ; 

He said, none was false to you. 10 

He said, he had loved her long ; 

She said, love should have no wrong. 

Corydon would kiss her then ; 

She said, maids must kiss no men, 

Till they did for good and all ; i s 

Then she made the shepherd call 

^ constantly 



All the heavens to witness truth : 

Never loved a truer youth. 

Thus with many a pretty oath, 

Yea and nay, and faith and troth, 20 

Such as silly ^ shepherds use 

When they wiU not love abuse. 

Love which had been long deluded, 

Was with kisses sweet concluded ; 

And PhyUida, with garlands gay, 25 

Was made the Lady of the May. 

— N. Breton (1545?-! 626?) 

AS IT FELL UPON A DAY 

As it fell upon a day, 

In the merry month of May, 

Sitting in a pleasant shade, 

Which a group of myrtles made, 

Beasts did leap and birds did sing, 5 

Trees did grow and plants did spring, 

Everything did banish moan, 

Save the nightingale alone ; 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean'd her breast against a thorn, 10 

And there sung the dolefuU'st ditty. 

That to hear it was great pity. 

"Fie, fie, fie !" now would she cry; 

"Teru, teru !" ^ by-and-by. 

That to hear her so complain 15 

Scarce I could from tears refrain ; 

For her griefs so lively shown 

Made me think upon mine own. 

Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain. 

None takes pity on thy pain. 20 

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 

Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee ; 

King Pandion ^ he is dead. 

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; 

All thy fellow birds do sing, 25 

Careless of thy sorrowing ; 

Even so, poor bird, like thee, 

None alive will pity me. 

— Ignoto 

PHYLLIDA'S LOVE-CALL TO HER 
CORYDON, AND HIS REPLYING 

Phyl. Corydon, arise my Corydon ! 

Titan shineth clear. * 

Cor. Who is it that calleth Corydon? 

Who is it that I hear? 

^ simple and good - Cf. note on Sidney's The 
Nightingale ^ the father of Philomela and Progne 



ENGLAND'S HELICON 



163 



Phyl. Phyllida, thy true love, calleth thee, 5 
Arise then, arise then ; 

Arise and keep thy flock with me ! 
Cor. Phylhda, my true love, is it she? 

I come then, I come then, 9 

I come and keep my flock with thee. 

Phyl. Here are cherries ripe for my Corydon ; 

Eat them for my sake. 
Cor. Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one, 

Sport for thee to make. 
Phyl. Here are threads, my true love, fine as 
sflk, I s 

To knit thee, to knit thee, 

A pair of stockings white as milk. 
Cor. Here are reeds, my true love, fine and 
neat, 
To make thee, to make thee, 
A bonnet to withstand the heat. 

Phyl. I will gather flowers, my Corydon, 21 

To set in thy cap. 
Cor. I will gather pears, my lovely one. 

To put in thy lap. 
Phyl. I will buy my true love garters gay. 

For Sundays, for Sundays, 26 

To wear about his legs so tall. 
Cor. I will buy my true love yellow say,^ 

For Sundays, for Sundays, 

To wear about her middle small. 

Phyl. When my Corydon sits on a hill, 31 

Making melody — 
Cor. When my lovely one goes to her 
wheel. 
Singing cheerily — 
Phyl. Sure methinks my true love doth 
excel 35 

For sweetness, for sweetness. 

Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight. 

Cor. And methinks my true love bears the 

bell 

For clearness, for clearness, 39 

Beyond the nymphs that be so 

bright. 

Phyl. Had my Corydon, my Corydon, 
Been, alack ! her swain — 

Cor. Had my lovely one, my lovely one. 
Been in Ida plain — 

Phyl. Cynthia Endymion had refused, 45 
Preferring, preferring, 
My Cor>'don to play withal. 



Cor. The queen of love had been excused 
Bequeathing, bequeathing. 

My Phyllida the golden ball. 50 

Phyl. Yonder comes my mother, Corydon, 

Whither shaU I fly? 
Cor. Under yonder beech, my lovely one, 

While she passeth by. 
Phyl. Say to her thy true love was not here ; 
Remember, remember, 56 

To-morrow is another day. 
Cor. Doubt me not, my true love, do not 
fear ; 
Farewell then, farewell then, 
Heaven keep our loves alway. 60 
— Ignoto . 



THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF 
LOVE 

Melibceus. Shepherd, what's love, I pray 

thee teU? 
Faustus. It is that fountain and that weU 

Where pleasure and repentance 

dwell ; 
It is perhaps that sauncing bell ^ 
That tolls all in to heaven or hell : 
And this is Love, as I hear tell. 6 
Meli. Yet what is Love, I prithee say? 
Faust. It is a work on holiday. 

It is December match 'd with May, 
When lusty bloods in fresh array 
Hear ten months after of the play ; 
And this is Love, as I hear say. 1 2 
Meli. Yet what is Love, good shepherd, 

sain - ? 
Faust. It. is a sunshine mix'd with rain, 
It is a tooth-ache, or like ^ pain. 
It is a game, where none doth gain ; 
The lass saith no, and would full 

fain: 
And this is Love, as I hear sain. 18 
Meli. Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I 

pray? 
Faust. It is a yea, it is a nay, 

A pretty kind of sporting fray. 
It is a thing will soon away. 

Then, nymphs, take vantage while 

ye may : 
And this is Love, as I hear say. 24 
Meli. Yet what is Love, good shepherd, 
show ? 



^ silk for a girdle or sash 



' Sanctus bell 



say 



' similar 



164 



ENGLAND'S HELICON 



Faust. A thing that creeps, it cannot go, 
A prize that passeth to and fro, 
A thing for one, a thing for moe,^ 
And he that proves shall find it so : 
And, shepherd, this is Love, I 
trow. 30 

— Ignoto 



DAMELUS' SONG TO HIS DIAPHENIA 

Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly, 
White as the sun, fair as the lily, 

Heigho, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as my lambs 
Are beloved of their dams : 

How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me ! 

Diaphenia, like the spreading roses', 7 

That in thy sweets all sweets encloses, 

Fair sweet, how I do love thee ! 
I do love thee as each flower 
Loves the sun's life-giving power ; 

For dead, thy breath to life might move me. 

Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, 1 3 

When all thy praises are expressed, 

Dear joy, how I do love thee ! 
As the birds do love the Spring, 
Or the bees their careful king : 

Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me ! 18 

— H. C. 



A NYMPH'S DISDAIN OF LOVE 

"Hey, down, a down I"^ did Dian sing. 

Amongst her virgins sitting ; 
"Than love there is no vainer thing. 

For maidens most unfitting." 
And so think I, with a down, down, derry.^ 5 

When women knew no woe. 

But lived themselves to please. 
Men's feigning guiles they did not know. 

The ground of their disease. 
Unborn was false suspect,^ 10 

No thought of jealousy ; 
From wanton toys '' and fond affect,^ 

The virgin's Hfe was free. 
"Hey, down, a down !" did Dian sing, etc. 



^ more ^ A meaningless refrain ^ 
^ frivolous trifling ^ foolish affection 



suspicion 



At length men used charms, 15 

To which what ^ maids gave ear, 
Embracing gladly endless harms. 

Anon enthralled were. 
Thus women welcomed woe. 

Disguised in name of love, 20 

A jealous hell, a painted show : 

So shall they find that prove. 
"Hey, down, a down !" did Dian sing, 

Amongst her virgins sitting ; 
"Than love there is no vainer thing, 25 

For maidens most unfitting." 
And so think I, with a down, down, derry. 

— Ignoto 

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL 

Love in my bosom like a bee, 

Doth suck his sweet ; 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 

Now with his feet. 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amidst my tender breast ; 
My kisses are his daily feast, 
And yet he robs me of my rest. 

Ah, wanton,^ will ye? 9 

And if I sleep, then percheth he, 

With pretty slight, 
And makes his pillow of my knee, 

The livelong night. 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ; 
He music plays if I but sing ; 
He lends me every lovely thing ; 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting. 

Whist, wanton, still ye ! 18 

Else I with roses every day 

Win ship ye hence, 
And bind ye, when ye long to play. 

For your offence. 
I'll shut my eyes to keep ye in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
I'll count your power not worth a pin. 
Alas ! what hereby shall I win 

If he gainsay me? 27 

What if I beat the wanton boy 

With many a rod? 
He will repay me with annoy. 

Because a god. 
Then sit thou safely on my knee, 

^ whichever "^ rascal {used playfully) 



ENGLAND'S HELICON 



i6s 



And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee. 
O Cupid ! so thou pity me, 

Spare not, but play thee. 36 

— Thom. Lodge (1558?-! 62 5) 

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS 
LOVE 

Come live with me and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove. 
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, 
Woods, or steepy mountains yields. 4 

And we will sit upon the rocks. 

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks. 

By shallow rivers, to whose falls 

Melodious birds sings madrigals. 8 

And I will make thee beds of roses, 

And a thousand fragrant posies, 

A cap of flowers and a kirtle 

Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle : 1 2 

A gown made of the finest wool. 

Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 

Fair lined slippers for the cold. 

With buckles of the purest gold ; 16 

A belt of straw and ivy buds. 
With coral clasps and amber studs ; 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my love. 20 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delights each May morning ; 



If these delights thy mind may move. 
Then live with me and be my love. 24 

— Cur. Marlow (i 564-1 593) 

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE 
SFIEPHERD 

If all the world and love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
These pretty pleasures might me move, 
To live with thee and be thy love. 4 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb ; 
The rest complains of cares to come. 8 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward Winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
. Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 12 

Thy gowns, thy shoes; thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 16 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. 

Thy coral clasps and amber studs. 

All these in me no means can move. 

To come to thee and be thy love. 20 

But could youth last, and love still breed. 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move. 
To live with thee and be thy love. 24 

— Ignoto 



THE END OF THE RENAISSANCE 



THOMAS DEKKER (i57o?-i64i) 

From THE SHOEMAKER'S HOLIDAY 

THE SECOND THREE MEN'S SONG 

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, 

Saint Hugh be our good speed ! 
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain. 

Nor helps good hearts in need. 4 

Trowl the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl. 

And here, kind mate, to thee : 
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul. 

And down it merrily. 8 

Down a down ! hey down a down ! 

Hey derry derry, down a down ! 
Ho, well done ; to me let come ! 

Ring, compass, gentle joy. 12 

Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl. 
And here, kind mate, to thee : etc. 

{Repeat as often as there be men to drink ; and 
at last when all have drunk, this verse:) 

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain. 

Saint Hugh be our good speed ! 16 

111 is the weather that bringeth no gain, 
Nor helps good hearts in need. 

From OLD FORTUNATUS 

SONG 

Virtue smiles : cry holiday, 

Dimples on her cheeks do dwell. 

Virtue frowns, cry welladay, 

Her love is heaven, her hate is hell, 

Since heaven and hell obey her power, 5 

Tremble when her eyes do lower. 

Since heaven and hell her power obey. 

Where she smiles, cry holiday. 

Holiday with joy we cry, 

And bend, and bend, and merrily 10 

Sing hymns to Virtue's deity : 

Sing hymns to Virtue's deity. 



From PATIENT GRISSILL 

CONTENT 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? 

O sweet content ! 
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed.^ 

O punishment ! 4 

Dost laugh to see how fools are vexed 
To add to golden numbers golden numbers ? ^ 
O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content ! 

Work apace ! apace ! apace ! apace ! 

Honest labour bears a lovely face. 

Then hey noney, noney ; hey noney, noney ! 

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? 

O sweet content ! 1 2 

Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine 
own tears? 

O punishment ! 
Then he that patiently want's burden bears 1 5 
No burden bears, but is a king, a king. 
O sweet content, sweet, O sweet content ! 

Work apace, apace, etc. 

THE GULL'S HORNBOOK 
CHAPTER VI 

How A Gallant should behave himself in 
A Play-House 

The theatre is your poets' royal exchange, 
upon which their muses (that are now turned 
to merchants) meeting, barter away that light 
commodity of words for a lighter ware than 
words, plaudities,^ and the breath of the great 
beast ; ^ which (like the threatenings of two 
cowards) vanish all into air. Players and 
their factors,'* who put away the stuff, and 
make the best of it they possibly can (as in- 
deed 'tis their parts so to do), j^our gallant, 
your courtier, and your captain, had wont to 

^ trouble themselves to heap up gold - applause 
' the public ^ adherents 



166 



THE GULL'S HORNBOOK 



167 



be the soundest paymasters; and I think 
are still the surest chapmen;^ and these, by 
means that their heads are well stocked, deal 
upon this comical freight by the gross : when 
your groundling,^ and gallery-commoner ^ buys 
his sport by the penny, and, like a haggler,^ 
is glad to utter '^ it again by retailing. 

Since then the place is so free in entertain- 
ment, allowing a stool as well to the farmer's 
son as to your templer : ^ that your stinkard 
has- the selfsame liberty to be there in his to- 
bacco fumes, which your sweet courtier hath : 
and that your carman and tinker claim as 
strong a voice in their suffrage, and sit to give 
judgment on the play's life and death, as well 
as the proudest momus ^ among the tribes of 
critic : it is fit that he, whom the most tailors' 
bills do make room for, Avhen he comes, should 
not be basely (like a viol) cased up in a corner. 

Whether therefore the gatherers ^ of the 
public or private playhouse stand to receive 
the afternoon's rent, let our gallant (having 
paid it) presently advance himself up to the 
throne of the stage. I mean not into the 
lord's room (which is now but the stage's 
suburbs) : no, those boxes, by the iniquity of 
custom, conspiracy of waiting women and 
gentlemen ushers, that there sweat together, 
and the covetousness of sharers,* are con- 
temptibly thrust into the rear, and much 
new satin is there damned, by being smothered 
to death in darkness. But on the very rushes 
where the comedy is to dance, yea, and under 
the state ^ of Cambises himself must our 
feathered estridge,^" like a piece of ordnance, 
be planted, valiantly (because impudently) 
beating down the mews and hisses of the 
opposed rascality. 

For do but cast up a reckoning, what large 
comings-in are pursed up by sitting on the 
stage. First a conspicuous eminence is got; 
by which means, the best and most essential 
parts of a gallant (good clothes, a proportion- 
able leg, white hand, the Persian lock, and a 
tolerable beard) are perfectly revealed. 

By sitting on the stage, you have a signed 
patent to engross the whole commodity of cen- 
sure ; may lawfully presume to be a girder; 
and stand at the helm to steer the passage of 
scenes ; yet no man shall once offer to hinder 

^ buyers ^ occupants of cheap places ^ huckster 
* sell ^ a resident of one of the inns of court ® a 
carping critic " doorkeepers * shareholders in the 
theatre ^ canopy ^° ostrich 



you from obtaining the title of an insolent, 
overweening coxcomb. 

By sitting on the stage, you may (without 
traveUing for it) at the very next door ask 
whose play it is : and, by that quest of in- 
quiry, the law warrants you to avoid much 
mistaking : if you know not the author, you 
may rail against him : and peradventure so 
behave yourself, that you may enforce the 
author to know you. 

By sitting on the stage, if you be a knight, 
you may happily ^ get you a mistress : if a ' 
mere Fleet-street gentleman, a wife : but 
assure yourself, by continual residence, you 
are the first and principal man in election to 
begin the number of We Three.^ 

By spreading your body on the stage, and 
by being a justice in examining of plays, you 
shall put yourself into such true scenical au- 
thority, that some poet shall not dare to 
present his muse rudely upon your eyes, 
without having first unmasked her, rifled 
her, and discovered all her bare and most 
mystical parts before you at a tavern, when 
you most knightly shall, for his pains, pay 
for both their suppers. 

By sitting on the stage, you may (with small 
cost) purchase the dear acquaintance of the 
boys : have a good stool for sixpence : ^ at any 
time know what particular part any of the in- 
fants^ present: get your match Hghted, ex- 
amine the play-suits' lace,^ and perhaps win 
wagers upon laying 'tis copper, etc. And 
to conclude, whether you be a fool or a justice 
of peace, a cuckold, or a captain, a lord- 
mayor's son, or a dawcock," a knave, or an 
under-sheriff ; of what stamp soever you be, 
current, or counterfeit, the stage, like time, 
will bring you to most perfect light and lay 
you open : neither are you to be himted 
from thence, though the scarecrows in the 
yard'' hoot at you, hiss at you, spit at you, 
yea, throw dirt even in your teeth : 'tis 
most gentlemanlike patience to endure all 
this, and to laugh at the silly animals:, but 
if the rabble, with a full throat, cry, "Away 
with the fool," you were worse than a mad- 
man to tarry by it : for the gentleman and 
the fool should never sit on the stage together. 

^ haply, by chance ^ A jest that still survives, 
— a picture of two fools or asses, with this in- 
scription. ^ the usual price •'boy players ''braid, 
usually of gold or silver *^ simpleton ^ the pit of 
the theatre, where there were no seats 



1 68 



THOMAS DEKKER 



Marry, let this observation go hand in hand 
with the rest : or rather, like a country serv- 
ing-man, some five yards before them. Pre- 
sent not yourself on the stage (especially at a 
new play) until the quaking prologue hath (by 
rubbing) got colour into his cheeks, and is 
ready to give the trumpets ^ their cue, that he's 
upon point to enter: for then it is time, as 
though you were one of the properties, or that 
you dropped out of the hangings, to creep from 
behind the arras,^ with your tripos or three- 
' footed stool in one hand, and a teston ^ mounted 
between a forefinger and a thumb in the other : 
for if you should bestow your person upon the 
vulgar, when the belly of the house is but half 
full, your apparel is quite eaten up, the fashion 
lost, and the proportion of your body in more 
danger to be devoured than if it were served 
up in the counter ^ amongst the poultry : avoid 
that as you would the bastome.^ It shall 
crown you with rich commendation to laugh 
aloud in the midst of the most serious and 
saddest scene of the terriblest tragedy: and 
to let that clapper (your tongue) be tossed so 
high, that all the house may ring of it : your 
lords use it ; your knights are apes to the 
lords, and do so too : your in-a-court-man ^ is 
zany ^ to the knights, and (marry very 
scurvily) comes likewise limping after it : 
be thou a beagle to them all, and never hn ^ 
snuffing, till you have scented them : for by 
talking and laughing (like a ploughman in a 
morris^) you heap Pelion upon Ossa, glory 
upon glory : as first, all the eyes in the galleries 
will leave walking after the players, and only 
follow you: the simplest dolt in the house 
snatches up your name, and when he meets 
you in the streets, or that you fall into his 
hands in the middle of a watch, his word shall 
be taken for you: he'll cry "He's such a gal- 
lant," and you pass. Secondly, you publish 
your temperance to the world, in that you 
seem not to resort thither to taste vain pleas- 
ures with a hungry appetite: but only as a 
gentleman to spend a foolish hour or two, 
because you can do nothing else : thirdly, you 
mightily disrehsh the audience, and disgrace 
the author : rnarry, you take up (though it 
be at the worst hand) a strong opinion of 
your own judgment, and enforce the poet 

^ trumpeters (who announced the beginning of 
the play) ^ clolh hung against the wall of the stage 
' sixpence "^ a prison for debtors ^ cudgel ^ lawyer 
"^ ape ® cease ^ a morris dance 



to take pity of your weakness, and, by some 
dedicated sonnet, to bring you into a better 
paradise, only to stop your mouth. 

If you can (either for love or money), pro- 
vide yourself a lodging by the water side : 
for, above the convenience it brings to shun 
shoulder-clapping,^ and to ship away your 
cockatrice ^ betimes in the morning, it adds a 
kind of state unto you, to be carried from 
thence to the stairs of your play-house : 
hate a sculler (remember that) worse than 
to be acquainted with one o' th' scullery. 
No, your oars are your only sea-crabs, board 
them, and take heed you never go twice 
together with one pair: often shifting is a 
great credit to gentlemen ; and that dividing 
of your fare will make the poor watersnakes 
be ready to pull you in pieces to enjoy your 
custom: no matter whether upon landing, 
you have money or no : you may swim in 
twenty of their boats over the river upon 
ticket : ^ marry, when silver comes in, remem- 
ber to pay treble their fare, and it will make 
your flounder-catchers to send more thanks 
after you, when you do not draw, than when 
you do ; for they know, it will be their own 
another day. 

Before the play begins, fall to cards : you 
may win or lose (as fencers do in a prize) and 
beat one another by confederacy, yet share 
the money when you meet at supper : not- 
withstanding, to gull the ragamuffins that 
stand aloof gaping at you, throw the cards 
(having first torn four or five of them) round 
about the stage, just upon the third sound,^ 
as though you had lost : it skills not * if the 
four knaves lie on their backs, and outface 
the audience ; there's none such fools as 
dare take exceptions at them, because, ere 
the play go off, better knaves than they will 
fall into the company. 

Now, sir, if the writer be a fellow that hath 
either epigrammed you, or hath had a flirt at 
your mistress, or hath brought either your 
feather, or your red beard, or your little legs, 
etc., on the stage, you shall disgrace him worse 
than by tossing him in a blanket, or giving 
him the bastinado in a tavern, if, in the middle 
of his play (be it pastoral or comedy, moral or 
tragedy), you rise with a screwed and dis- 
contented face from your stool to be gone ; 
no matter whether the scenes be good or no : 

^ by a constable - prostitute ^ " on tick" 
■' i.e. for the play to begin ^ it doesn't matter 



BEN JONSON 



169 



the better they are the worse do you distaste 
them : and, being on your feet, sneak not 
away Uke a coward, but salute all your gentle 
acquaintance, that are spread either on the 
rushes, or on stools about you, and draw what 
troop you can from the stage after you : the 
mimics^ are beholden to you, for allowing them 
elbow room: their poet cries, perhaps, "a 
pox go with you," but care not for that, 
there's no music without frets. 

Marry, if either the company, or indisposi- 
tion of the weather bind you to sit it out, my 
counsel is then that you turn plain ape, take 
up a rush, and tickle the earnest ears of your 
fellow gallants, to make other fools fall 
a-laughing : mew at passionate speeches, blare 
at merry, find fault with the music, whew 
at the children's action, whistle at the songs: 
and above all, curse the sharers, that whereas 
the same day you had bestowed forty shillings 
on an embroidered felt and feather (Scotch- 
fashion) for your mistress in the court, or 
your punk 2 in the city, within two hours after, 
you encounter with the very same block ^ on 
the stage, when the haberdasher swore to you 
the impression was extant but that morning. 

To conclude, hoard up the finest play-scraps 
you can get, upon which your lean wit may 
most savourly feed, for want of other stuff, 
when the Arcadian and Euphuised gentle- 
women have their tongues sharpened to set 
upon you : that quality (next to your shuttle- 
cock) is the only furniture to a courtier that's 
but a new beginner, and is but in his A B C of 
compliment. The next places that are filled, 
after the playhouses be emptied, are (or ought 
to be) taverns : into a tavern then let us next 
march, where the brains of one hogshead must 
be beaten out to make up another. 

BEN JONSON (i573?-i637) 

SONG TO CELIA 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 

And I'll not look for wine. • 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

^ players - prostitute ^ style of hat 



I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee 10 

As giving it a hope, that there 

It could not withcr'd be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe, 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee. 

THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS 

See the chariot at hand here of Love, 

Wherein my Lady rideth ! 
• Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 

And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty ; 
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to run by her side, 
Through swords, through seas, whither she 
would ride. lo 

Do but look on her eyes, they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth ! 
Do but look on her hair, it is bright 

As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother 

Than words that soothe her ; 
And from her arched brows, such a grace 

Sheds itself through the face 
As alone there triumphs to the life 
AU the gain, all the good, of the elements' 
strife. 20 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow. 
Before rude hands have touched it? 
Have you marked but the fall of the snow. 

Before the soil hath smutched it? 
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 

Or swan's down ever? 
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar? 
Or the nard in the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 
Oh so white ! Oh so soft ! Oh so sweet is 
she ! 30 

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, 
MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name 
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; 
While I confess thy writings to be such 
As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much. 



lyo 



BEN JONSON 



'Tis true, and all men's suffrage.^ But these 

ways 
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; 
For silliest ignorance on these may light, 
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes 

right ; 
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by 

chance ; lo 

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise. 
And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise. 
These are, as ^ some infamous bawd or r/hore 
Should praise a matron. What could hurt her 

more? 
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, 
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. 
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age ! 
The applause, delight, the wonder of our 

stage ! 
My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee 

by 

Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 
A httle further, to make thee a room : 
Thou art a moniiment without a tomb, 
And art alive still ^ while thy book doth live 
And we have wits to read and praise to give. 
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, 
I mean with great, but disproportioned 

Muses ; * 
For if I thought my judgment were of years, 
I should commit thee surely with thy peers, 
And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine, 
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 30 
And though thou hadst small Latin and less 

Greek, 
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek 
For names ; but call forth thundering iEschy- 

lus, 
Euripides, and Sophocles to us ; 
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,^ 
To life again, to hear thy buskin ^ tread. 
And shake a stage ; or, when thy socks ^ were 

on, 
Leave thee alone for the comparison 
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show 
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 42 
He was not of an age, but for all time ! 
And all the Muses still were in their prime, 

^ vote, opinion ^as if ^forever ^i.e. poets 
not equal to thee ^ Pacuvius, Accius, and Seneca, 
the most famous Latin tragedians '' the high shoe 
of tragedy ' the low shoe of comedy 



When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! 
Nature herself was proud of his designs 
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines ! 
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit. 
As, since, she wiU vouchsafe no other wit. 50 
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; 
But antiquated and deserted lie, 
As^ they were not of Nature's family. 
Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art. 
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. 
For though the poet's matter nature be, 
His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he 
Who casts ^ to write a living line, must sweat, 
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 
Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same 61 
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame, 
Or, for 2 the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; 
For a good poet's made, as well as born. 
And such wert thou ! Look how the father's 

face 
Lives in his issue, even so the race 
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly 

shines 
In his well turned, and true filed lines ; 
In each of which he seems to shake a lance. 
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70 
Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
To see thee in our waters yet appear, 
And make those flights upon the banks of 

Thames, 
That so did take Eliza, and our James ! 
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 
Advanced, and made a constellation there ! 
Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage 
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage. 
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath 

mourned like night, 79 

And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. 

From A PINDARIC ODE 

To the immortal memory and friendship of that 
noble pair, Sir Lticins Cary and Sir H. Morison. 

Ill 

The Strophe, or Turn 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make men better be ; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear : 

^ as if ^ attempts ^ instead of 



JOHN DONNE 



171 



A lily of a day, 

Is fairer far, in May ; 70 

Although it fall and die that night, 
It was the plant and flower of light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 



AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY^ 

Weep with me, all you that read 

This little story : 
And know, for whom a tear you shed 

Death's self is sorry. 
'Twas a child that so did thrive 

In grace and feature, 
As heaven and nature seem'd to strive 

Which owned the creature. 
Years he numbered scarce thirteen 

When fates turned cruel, 10 

Yet three filled zodiacs ^ had he been 

The stage's jewel ; 
And did act, what now we moan, 

Old men so duly, 
As, sooth, the Parca2^ thought him one, 

He played so truly. 
So, by error, to his fate 

They all consented ; 
But viewing him since, alas, too late ! 

They have repented ; 20 

• And have sought, to give new birth, 

In baths to steep him ; 
But being so much too good for earth, 

Heaven vows to keep him. 



EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H." 

Would'st thou hear what man can say 
In a little? Reader, stay. 

Underneath this stone doth lie 
As much beauty as could die : 
Which in Hfe did harbour give 
To more virtue than doth live. 

If at all she had a fault. 
Leave it buried in this vault. 
One name was Elizabeth, 
The other, let it sleep with death ! : 

Fitter, where it died, to tell, 
Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 



' the most famous child actor of his 
' years ^ the Fates ■* Lady Plerbert 



time 



JOHN DONNE (1573-1631) 

THE INDIFFERENT 

I can love both fair and brown ; 

Her whom abundance melts, and her whom 

want betrays ; 
Her who loves loneness best, and her who 

masks and plays ; 
Her whom the country form'd, and whom the 

town ; 
Her who believes, and her who tries ; 
Her who still weeps with spongy eyes, 
And her who is dry cork and never cries. 
I can love her, and her, and you, and you ; 
I can love any, so she be not true. 9 

Will no other vice content 3^ou? 

Will it not serve your turn to do as did your 

mothers ? 
Or have ypu all old vices spent and now would 

find out others? 
Or doth a fear that men are true torment you ? 

we are not, be not you so ; 

Let me — and do you — twenty know ; 
Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go. 
Must I, who came to travel thorough you, 17 
Grow your fix'd subject, because you are true ? 

Venus heard me sigh this song ; 

And by love's sweetest part, variety, she 

swore, 
She heard not this till now ; it should be so no 

more. 
She went, examined, and return'd ere long, 
And said, "Alas ! some two or three 
Poor heretics in love there be. 
Which think to stablish dangerous constancy. 
But I have told them, 'Since you will be true, 
You shall be true to them who 're false to 

you.'" 27 

LO\rE'S DEITY 

1 long to talk with some old lover's ghost 
Who died before the god of love was born. 

I caifcot think that he who then loved most 
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. 
But since this god produced a destiny, 
And that vice-nature, ^ custom, lets it be, 
I must love her that loves not me. ^ 

^Nature's substitute 



172 



JOHN DONNE 



Sure, they which made him^ god, meant not so 
much, 

Nor he in his young godhead practiced it. 
But when an even flame two hearts did touch. 

His office was indulgently to fit 
Actives to passives. Correspondency 
Only his subject was ; it cannot be 

Love till I love her who loves me. 14 

But every modern god will not extend 
His vast prerogative as far as Jove. 

To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend. 
All is the purlieu of the god of love. 

O ! were we waken'd by this tyranny 

To ungod this child ^ again, it could not be 
I should love her who loves not me. 21 

Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, 

As though I felt the worst that love could 

do? 

Love may make me leave loving, or might try 

A deeper plague, to make her love me too ; 

Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see. 

Falsehood is worse than hate ; and that must 

be. 

If she whom I love, should love me. 28 



Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry 
If into other hands these reliques came. 

As 'twas humility 
T'afford to it all that a soul can do. 

So 'tis some bravery 
That, since you^ would have none of me, I 
bury some of you. 24 



FORGET 

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree 
Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us. 
If lecherous goats, if serpents envious 
Cannot be damn'd, alas ! why should I be ? 
Why should intent or reason, born in me. 
Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous? 
And, mercy being easy and glorious 
To God, in His stern wrath why threatens He ? 
But who am I, that dare dispute with Thee ? 

God, O ! of Thine only worthy blood 10 
And my tears make a heavenly Lethean flood, 
And drownin it my sin's black memory. 
That Thou remember them, some claim as 

debt; 

1 think it mercy if Thou wilt forget. 



THE FUNERAL 

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm 

Nor question much 
.That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm ; 
The mystery, the sign you must not touch. 

For 'tis my outward soul, 
Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone, 

Will leave this to control 
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dis- 
solution. 8 

For if the sinewy thread ^ my brain lets fall 

Through every part 
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all ; 
Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength 
and art 

Have from a better brain, 
Can better do't : except she meant that I 

By this should know my pain. 
As prisoners then are manacled, when they're 
condemn'd to die. 16 

Whate'er she meant by't, bury it with me. 
For since I am 

^ the god of love ^ the spinal cord and nerves 



DEATH 

Death, be not proud, though some have called 

thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; 
For those whom thou think'st thou dost over- 
throw 
Die not, poor Death ; nor yet canst thou kill 

me. 
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture 

be, 
Much pleasure ; then from thee much more 

must flow ; 
And soonest our best men with thee do go — 
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery ! 8 
Thou'rt slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and 

desperate men, 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell ; 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as 

well 
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st 

thou then? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
And Death shall be no more : Death, thou 

shalt die ! 

^ the she of II. 14, 17 



JOHN FLETCHER 



173 



JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625) 
SWEETEST MELANCHOLY 

Hence, all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights 

Wherein you spend your folly ! 
There's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were wise to see't, 5 

But only melancholy ; 

O sweetest melancholy ! 

Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, 
A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
A look that's fastened t© the ground, 10 
A tongue chained up without a sound ! 
Fountain heads and pathless groves, 
Places which pale passion loves ! 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 1 5 

A midnight bell, a parting groan, 
These are the sounds we feed upon. 

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ; 

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melan- 
choly. 

INVOCATION TO SLEEP 

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
On this afiiicted prince ; fall like a cloud 
In gentle showers ; give nothing that is loud 
Or painful to his slumbers ; — easy, sweet, 5 
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, 
Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain 
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain ; 
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide. 
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 10 



BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR 

Beauty clear and fair. 
Where the air 

Rather like a perfume dwells ; 
Where the violet and the rose 
Their blue veins and blush disclose. 

And come to honour nothing else. 

Where to live near, 

And planted there, 
Is to live, and still live new ; 

Where to gain a favour is 

More than light, perpetual bliss, — 
Make me live by serving you. 

Dear, again back recall 
To this light 

A stranger to himself and all ; 
Both the wonder and the story 
Shall be yours, and eke the glory : 

I am your servant, and your thrall. 



WEEP NO MORE 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan. 
Sorrow calls no time that's gone ; 
Violets plucked the sweetest rain 
Makes not fresh nor grow again ; 
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully ; 
Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see ; 
Joys as winged dreams fly fast, 
Why should sadness longer last ? 

Grief is but a wound to woe ; 
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo.^ 



18 



SONG TO BACCHUS 

God Ly^eus,^ ever young. 
Ever honoured, ever sung ; 
Stained with blood of lusty grapes, 
In a thousand lusty shapes, 
Dance upon the mazer's brim, 
In the crimson liquor swim ; 
From thy plenteous hand divine 
Let a river run with wine ; 
God of youth, let this day here 
Enter neither care nor fear ! 



DIRGE 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of the dismal yew ; 
Maidens, willow branches bear ; 

Say, I died true. 

My love was false, but I was firm 
From my hour of birth. 

Upon my buried body lie 
Lightly, gentle earth ! 



the god of relaxation 



174 



BEAUMONT AND DRUMMOND 



FRANCIS BEAUMONT 

(1584-1616) 

MASTER FRANCIS BEAUMONT'S 
LETTER TO BEN JONSON 

The sun (which doth the greatest comfort 
bring 
To absent friends, because the selfsame thing 
They know they see, however absent) is 
Here our best haymaker ! Forgive me this ; 
It is our country's style ! In this warm shine 
I he and dream of your full Mermaid Wine ! 6 



Only strong Destiny, which all controls, 70 
I hope hath left a better fate in store 
For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor. 
Banished unto this home ! Fate, once again. 
Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and 

plain 
The way of knowledge for me ; and then I, 
Who have no good but in thy company, 
Protest it will my greatest comfort be 
To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee '. 
Ben, when these scenes are perfect, we'll 

taste wine ! 
I'll drink thy Muse's health ! thou shalt quafi 

mine ! 80 



Methinks the little wit I had is lost 40 
Since I saw you ! For wit is like a rest ^ 
Held 2 up at tennis, which men do the best 
With the best gamesters. What things have 

we seen 
Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have 

been 
So nimble and so full of subtle flame, 
As if that every one from whence they came 
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest 
And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
Of his dull life ! Then, when there hath been 

thrown 
Wit able enough to justify the town 50 

For three days past ! Wit, that might war- 
rant be 
For the whole city to talk foolishly 
Till that were cancelled ! And, when we were 

gone, 
We left an air behind us, which alone 
Was able to make the two next companies 
Right witty ! though but downright fools, 

more wise ! 
When I remember this, and see that now 
The country gentlemen begin to allow 
My wit for dry bobs ; ^ then I needs must cry, 
"I see m.y days of ballading grow nigh !" 60 

I can already riddle ; and can sing 
Catches, sell bargains ; and I fear shall bring 
Myself to speak the hardest words I find 
Over as oft as any, with one wind. 
That takes no medicines ! But one thought 

of thee 
Makes me remember all these things to be 
The wit of our young men, fellows that show 
No part of gooql, yet utter all they know ! 
Who, like trees of the guard, have growing 

souls. 

^ rally "kept ^ smart quip.5 or hits 



WILLIAM DRUMMOND 

(1585-1649) 

SONNET 

A passing glance, a lightning 'long the skies. 
That, ush'ring thunder, dies straight to our 

sight ; 
A spark, of contraries which doth arise. 
Then drowns in the huge depths of day and 

night : 
Is this small Small call'd life, held in such price 
Of blinded wights, who nothing judge aright. 
Of Parthian shaft so swift is not the flight 
As life, that wastes itself, and living dies. 
! what is human greatness, valour, wit ? 
What fading beauty , riches, honour, praise? 10 
To what doth serve in golden thrones to sit, 
Thrall earth's vast round, triumphal arches 
raise ? 
All is a dream, learn in this prince's fall, 
In whom, save death, nought mortal was at 
all. 

MADRIGAL I 

This life, which seems so fair. 

Is like a bubble blown up in the air 

By sporting children's breath. 

Who chase it everywhere. 

And strive who can most motion it bequeath ; 

And though it sometime seem of its own might. 

Like to an eye of gold, to be fix'd there, 7 

And firm to hover in that empty height. 

That only is because it is so light. 

But in that pomp it doth not long appear ; 10 

For even when most admir'd, it in a 
thought, 

As swell'd from nothing, doth dissolve in 
nought. 



FORD AND WITHER 175 

JOHN FORD (fl. 1639) GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667) 



IS 



SONG 

From THE BROKEN HEART 

Can you paint a thought ? or number 
Every fancy in a shimber ? 
Can you count soft minutes roving 
From a dial's point by moving? 
Can you grasp a sigh? or, lastly, 
Rob a virgin's honour chastely? 

No, 0, no ! yet you may 
Sooner do both that and this, 
This and that, and never miss, 

Than by any praise display 
Beauty's beauty ; such a glory, 
As beyond all fate, all story, 

All arms, all arts, 

All loves, all hearts, 
Greater than those or they. 
Do, shall, and must obey. 



DIRGE 

From THE BROKEN HEART 

Chor. Glories, pleasures, pomps, de- 

lights, and ease. 
Can but please 
The outward senses, when the 

mind 
Is or untroubled or by peace 
refined. 
1ST Voice. Crowns may flourish and decay , 5 

Beauties shine, but fade away. 
2ND Voice. Youth may revel, yet it must 

Lie down in a bed of dust. 
3Rr) Voice. Earthly honours flow and waste, 
Time alone doth change and 
last. 10 

Chor. Sorrows mingled with contents 

prepare 
Rest for care ; 
' Love only reigns in death ; 

though art 
Can find no comfort for a broken 
heart. 



From FAIR VIRTUE, TliE MISTRESS OF 
PHILARETE 1 

SONNET IV 

Shall I, wasting in despair. 

Die, because a woman's fair? 

Or make pale my cheeks with care, 

'Cause another's rosy are? 

Be she fairer than the day, 

Or the flowery meads in May ! 

If she be not so to me, 

What care I how fair she be ? 8 



Should my heart be grieved or pined, 
'Cause I see a woman kind? 
Or a well disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature? 
Be she meeker, kinder than 
Turtle dove, or pehcan ! 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how kind she be ? 



16 



Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her well deserving known. 
Make me quite forget mine own? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may gain her, name of best ! 
If she be not such to me, 
\Vhat care I how good she be ? 



24 



'Cause her fortune seems too high, 

Shall I play the fool, and die? 

Those that bear a noble mind, 

Where they want of riches find. 

Think "What, with them, they would do 

That, without them, dare to woo !" 

And unless that mind I see, 

Wbat care I though great she be? 32 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair 1 
If she love me (this believe !) 
I will die, ere she shall grieve ! 
If she slight me, when I woo, 
I can scorn, and let her go ! 

For if she be not for me. 

What care I for whom she be ? 40 

^ Philarete means lover of virtue 



176 



HEYWOOD AND BROWNE 



THOMAS HEYWOOD (d. 1650?) 
GO, PRETTY BIRDS! 

Ye little birds, that sit and sing 

Amidst the shady valleys. 
And see how Phillis sweetly walks 

Within her garden alleys, 
Go, pretty birds, about her bower ! 
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower ! 
Ah me ! methinks, I see her frown ! 

Ye pretty wantons, warble ! 8 

Go, tell her, through your chirping bills. 

As you by me are bidden, 
To her is only known my love ; 

Which from the world is hidden. 
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so ! 
See that your notes strain not too low ! 
For still, methinks, I see her frown ! 

Ye pretty wantons, warble ! 16 

Go, tune your voices' harmony. 

And sing, I am her lover ! 
Strain loud and sweet, that every note 

With sweet content may move her ! 
And she that hath the sweetest voice. 
Tell her, I will not change my choice ! 
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown ! 

Ye pretty wantons, warble ! 24 

O, fly ! Make haste ! See, see, she falls 

Into a pretty slumber ! 
Sing round about her rosy bed. 

That, waking, she may wonder ! 
Say to her, 'Tis her lover true. 
That sendeth love to you ! to you ! 
And when you hear her kind reply, 

Return with pleasant warblings ! 32 



WILLIAM BROWNE (i 591-1643) 

BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS 

From BOOK II, SONG V 

Now was the Lord and Lady of the May 
Meeting the May-pole at the break of day. 
And Caelia, as the fairest on the green, 
Not without some maids' envy chosen queen. 
Now was the time com'n, when our gentle 
swain 



Must in ^ his harvest or lose all again. 146 
Now must he pluck the rose lest other 

hands, 
Or tempests, blemish what so fairly stands : 
And therefore, as they had before decreed, 
Our shepherd gets a boat, and with all speed, 
In night, that doth on lovers' actions smUe, 
Arrived safe on Mona's fruitful isle.^ 152 

Between two rocks (immortal, without 
mother,) 
That stand as if out-facing one another, 
There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, 155 
As if the waters hid them from the wind; 
Which never wash'd but at a higher tide 
The frizzled coats which do the mountains 

hide; 
Where never gale was longer known to stay 1 59 
Than from the smooth wave it had swept 

away 
The new divorced leaves, that from each 

side 
Left the thick boughs to dance out with the 

tide. 
At further end the creek a stately wood 
Gave a kind shadow to the brackish flood 
Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each 

skifi 
Than that sky-scaling Peak of Teneriffe, 166 
Upon whose tops the hernshaw^ bred her 

young. 
And hoary moss upon their branches hung ; 
Whose rugged rinds suflicient were to show. 
Without their height, what time they 'gan to 

grow; 
And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, 171 
None could allot them less than Nestor's 

years. 
As under their command the thronged creek 
Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek 
Where he his little boat might safely hide, 175 
Till it was fraught with what the world beside 
Could not outvalue ; nor give equal weight 
Though in the time when Greece was at her 
height. 



EPITAPH 

May, be thou never graced with birds that 
sing. 

Nor Flora's pride ! 
In thee all flowers and roses spring, 

Mine only died. . 

^ bring in ^ the isle of Anglesey ^ heron 



ROBERT HERRICK 



177 



ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF 
PEMBROKE 

Underneath this sable herse 
Lies the subject of all verse : 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother : 
Death, ere thou hast slain another 
Fair and learn'd and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 

ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674) 

CHERRY-RIPE 

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, 

Full and fair ones ; come and buy ; 

If so be you ask me where 

They do grow ? I answer, there, 

Where my Julia's lips do smile ; 5 

There's the land, or cherry-isle, 

WTiose plantations fully show 

All the year where cherries grow, 

CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING 

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming mom 
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.^ 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colours through the air : 
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the 

east 
Above an hour since : yet you not dress'd ; 
Nay ! not so much as out of bed? 
When all the birds have matins said 10 
And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, 
Nay, profanation, to keep in. 
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. 

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen 
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and 
green, 
And sweet as Flora. Take no care 
For jewels for your gown or hair : 
Fear not ; the leaves will strew 
Gems in abundance upon you : 20 

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept. 
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept ; 
Come and receive them while the light 
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night : 

' golden-haired Apollo, i.e. the sun. 



And Titan on the eastern hill 
Retires himself, or else stands still 

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in 
praying : 

Few beads ^ are best when once we go a-Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, 
mark 29 

How each field turns a street, each street a 
park 
Made green and trimm'd with trees ; see 

how 
Devotion gives each house a bough 
Or branch : each porch, each door ere this 
An ark, a tabernacle is, 

Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove ; 

As if here were those cooler shades of love. 
Can such delights be in the street 
And open fields and we not see't? 
Come, we'll abroad ; and let's obey 
The proclamation made for May : 40 

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ; 

But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 

There's not a budding boy or girl this day 
But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 
Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 
Some have despatched their cakes and 

cream 
Before that we have left ^ to dream : 
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted 

troth. 
And chose their priest, ere we can cast ofif 
sloth : 50 

Many a green-gown has been given ; 
Many a kiss, both odd and even : 
Many a glance too has been sent 
From out the eye, love's firmament ; 
Many a jest told of the keys betraying 
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not 
a-Maying. 

Come, let us go while we are in our prime ; 

And take the harmless folly of the time. 
We shall grow old apace, and die 
Before we know our liberty. 60 

Our life is short, and our days run 
As fast away as does the sun ; 

And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, 

Once lost, can ne'er be found again, 
So when or you or I are made 
A fable, song, or fleeting shade, 



prayers 



' ceased 



178 



GEORGE HERBERT 



All love, all liking, all delight 

Lies drowned with us in endless night. 

Then while time serves, and we are but decay- 
ing, 

Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 70 

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH 
OF TIME 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still* a-flying ; 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 

To-morrow wUl be dying. 4 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he's a-getting. 
The sooner v/ill his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 8 

That age is best which is the first. 
When youth and blood are warmer ; 

But being spent, the worse and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 12 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
And while ye may, go marry ; 

For, having lost but once your prime, 
You may forever tarry. 16 



UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES 

When-as in silks my Julia goes. 

Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows 

The liquefaction of her clothes. 3 

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see 
That brave vibration, each way free, 
O, how that glittering taketh me ! 6 



TO DAFFODILS 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has not attain'd his noon. 
Stay, stay. 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along. 



We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you, or anything. 
We die 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew. 
Ne'er to be found again. 

TO KEEP A TRUE LENT. 

Is this a fast, to keep 
The larder lean, 
And clean, 
From fat of veals and sheep ? 

Is it to quit the dish 

Of flesh, yet still 
To fill 
The platter high with fish ? 

Is it to fast an hour. 

Or ragg'd to go, 
Or show 
A downcast look, and sour? 

No ; 'tis a fast, to dole 

Thy sheaf of wheat 
And meat 
Unto the hungry soul. 

It is to fast from strife, 
From old debate, 
And hate ; 
To circumcise thy life. 

To show a heart grief-rent ; 
To starve thy sin. 
Not bin ; ^ 
And that's to keep thy Lent. 



15 



16 



24 



GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633) 

VIRTUE 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky ! 

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 

For thou must die. 4 

^ larder for food 



IZAAK WALTON 



179 



Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 

Thy root is ever in its grave, 

And thou must die. 8 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 

My music shows ye have your closes, 

And aU must die. . 12 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 

Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 

But though the whole world turn to coal. 

Then chiefly lives. . 16 

THE COLLAR 

I struck the board, and cried, "No more ; 

I will abroad ! 
What ! shall I ever sigh and pine? 
My lines and life are free ; free as the road. 
Loose as the wind, as large as store.^ 

Shall I be still in suit ? 
Have I no harvest but a thorn 
To let me blood, and not restore 
What I have lost with cordial fruit? 

Sure there was wine ib 

Before my sighs did dry it ; there was corn 

Before mj^ tears did drown it ; 
Is the year only lost to me ? 
Have I no bays to crown it. 
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, 
All wasted ? 
Not so, my heart ; but there is fruit, 
And thou hast hands. 
Recover all thy sigh-blown age 
On double pleasures ; leave thy cold dispute 
Of what is fit and not ; forsake thy cage, 21 

Thy rope of sands 
Which petty thoughts have made ; and made 
to thee 
Good cable, to enforce and draw, 

And be thy law, 
WTiile thou didst wink^ and wouldst not see. 
Away ! take heed ; 
I wiU abroad. 
Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears : 
He that forbears 30 

To suit and serve his need 
Deserves his load." 
But as I raved, and grev/ more fierce and wild 
At every word, 
Methought I heard one calling, "Child" ; 
And I replied, "My Lord." 



^ plenty 



^ close the eyes 



LOVE 

Love bade me welcome ; yet my soul drew back, 

Guilty of dust and sin. 
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack 

From my first entrance in, 
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, 

If I lacked anything. 6 

" A guest," I answered, " worthy to be here: " 
Love said, " You shall be he." 

" I, the unkind, ungrateful ? Ah, my dear, 
I cannot look on Thee ! " 

Love took my hand and smiling did reply, 

" Who made the eyes but I ? " 12 

"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them : let my 
shame 
Go where it doth deserve." 
" Andknowyou not," says Love, " who bore the 
blame? " 
" My dear, then I will serve." ^ 
" You must sit down," says Love, " and taste 
my meat." 
So I did sit and eat. 18 



IZAAK WALTON (i 593-1683) 

THE COMPLETE ANGLER 

From THE FIRST DAY 

A Conference betwixt an Angler, a Fal- 
coner, AND A Hunter, each commend- 
ing HIS Recreation 

CHAPTER I. PiscAT0R,2 Venator,' Auceps * 

Piscaior. You are well overtaken, Gentle- 
men ! A good morning to you both ! I have 
stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill to over- 
take you, hoping your business may occasion 
you towards Ware, whither I am going this 
fine fresh J\Iay morning. 

Venator. Sir, I, for my part, shall almost 
answer your hopes ; for my purpose is to 
drink my morning's draught at the Thatched 
House in Hoddesden ; and I think not to rest 
till I come thither, where I have appointed a 
friend or two to meet me : but for this gentle- 
man that you see with me, I know not how far 
he intends his journey ; he came so lately into 

^ act as servant ^ angler ^ hunter "* falconer 



i8o 



IZAAK WALTON 



my company, that I have scarce had time to 
ask him the question. 

Auceps. Sir, I shall by your favour bear you 
company as far as Theobalds, and there leave 
you ; for then I turn up to a friend's house, 
who mews ^ a Hawk for me, which I now long 
to see. 

Piscator. Sir, we are all so happy as to have 
a fine, fresh, cool morning; and I hope we 
shall each be the happier in the others' com- 
pany. And, Gentlemen, that I ma}^ not lose 
yours, I shall either abate or amend my pace 
to enjoy it, knowing that, as the Italians say, 
"Good company in a journey makes the way 
to seem the shorter." 

Auceps. It may do, Sir, with the help of 
a good discourse, which, methinks, we may 
promise from you, that both look and speak 
so cheerfully : and for my part, I promise you, 
as an invitation to it, that I will be as free and 
open hearted as discretion will allow me to be 
with strangers. 

Venator. And, Sir, I promise the like. 

Piscator. I am right glad to hear your an- 
swers ; and, in confidence ^ you speak the truth, 
I shall put on a boldness to ask you. Sir, 
whether business or pleasure caused you to be 
so early up, and walk so fast? for this other 
gentleman hath declared he is going to see a 
hawk, that a friend mews for him. 

Venator. Sir, mine is a mixture of both, a 
little business and more pleasure; for I in- 
tend this day to do all my business, and then 
bestow another day or two in hunting the 
Otter, which a friend, that I go to meet, tells 
me is much pleasanter than any other chase 
whatsoever : howsoever, I mean to try it ; 
for to-morrow morning we shall meet a pack 
of Otter-dogs of noble Mr. Sadler's, upon 
Amwell Hill, who will be there so early, 
that they intend to prevent ^ the sunrising. 

Piscator. Sir, my fortune has answered my 
desires, and my purpose is to bestow a day or 
two in helping to destroy some of those villain- 
ous vermin : for I hate them perfectly, be- 
cause they love fish so well, or rather, because 
they destroy so much ; indeed so much, that, 
in my judgment all men that keep Otter- 
dogs ought to have pensions from the King, 
to encourage them to destroy the very breed 
of those base Otters, they do so much mischief. 
Venator. But what say you to the Foxes 
of the Nation? would not you as willingly 



have them destroyed? for doubtless they do 
as much mischief as Otters do. 

Piscator. Oh, Sir, if they do, it is not so 
much to me and my fraternity, as those base 
vermin the Otters do. 

Aticeps. Why, Sir, I pray, of what fra- 
ternity are you, that you are so angry with 
the poor Otters? 

Piscator. 1 am. Sir, a Brother of the Angle, 
and therefore an enemy to the Otter : for you 
are to note, that we Anglers all love one 
another, and therefore do I hate the Otter 
both for my own, and their sakes who are of 
my brotherhood. 

Venator. And I am a lover of Hounds : I 
have followed many a pack of dogs many a 
mile, and heard many merry Huntsmen make 
sport and scoff at Anglers. 

Auceps. And I profess myself a Falconer, 
and have heard many grave, serious men pity 
them, it is such a heavy, contemptible, dull 
recreation. 

Piscator. You know, Gentlemen, it is an 
easy thing to scoff at any art or recreation ; 
a little wit mixed with ill-nature, confidence, 
and malice will do it ; but though they often 
venture boldly, yet they are often caught, 
even in their own trap, according to that of 
Lucian,^ the father of the family of Sco&ers : — 

Lucian, well skill'd in scoffing, this hath writ, 
Friend, that's your folly, which you think your 

wit : 
This you vent oft, void both of wit and fear. 
Meaning another, when yourself you jeer. 

If to this you add what Solomon says of 
Scoffers, that they are an abomination to man- 
kind, let him that thinks fit scoff on, and be a 
Scoffer still ; but I account them enemies .to 
me and all that love Virtue and Angling. 

And for you that have heard many grave, 
serious men pity Anglers ; let me tell you. Sir, 
there be many men that are by others taken 
to be serious and grave men, whom we con- 
temn and pity. Men that are taken to be 
grave, because nature hath made them of a 
sour complexion ; money-getting men, men 
that spend all their time, first in getting, and 
next, in anxious care to keep it ; men that 
are condemned to be rich, and then always 
busy or discontented : for these poor rich 
men, we Anglers pity them perfectly, and 
stand in no need to borrow their thoughts to 



^ keeps in a cage ^ Supply that. ' anticipate 



^ a famous Greek satirist 



CAREW AND BROWNE 



i«i 



think ourselves so happy. No, no, Sir, we 
enjoy a contentedness above the reach of 
such dispositions, and as the learned and 
ingenuous Montaigne says, like himself, 
freely, "\Vlien my Cat and I entertain each 
other with mutual apish tricks, as playing 
with a garter, who knows but that I make 
my Cat more sport than she makes me? 
Shall I conclude her to be simple, that has 
her time to begin or refuse, to play as freely 
as I m^yself have? Nay, who knows but 
that it is a defect of my not understanding 
her language, for doubtless Cats talk and 
reason with one another, that we agree no 
better : and who knows but that she pities 
me for being no wiser than to play with her, 
and laughs and censures my folly, for making 
sport for her, when we two play together?" 

Thus freely speaks Montaigne concerning 
Cats ; and I hope I may take as great a 
liberty to blame any man, and laugh at him 
too, let him be never so grave, that hath 
not heard what Anglers can say in the justi- 
fication of their Art and Recreation ; which 
I may again tell you, is so full of pleasure, 
that we need not borrow their thoughts, to 
think ourselves happy. 



THOMAS CAREW (i598?-i639?) 

SONG 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
When June is past, the fading rose. 
For in your beauty's orient deep 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 4 

Ask me no more whither do stray 

The golden atoms of the day, 

For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 

Those powders to enrich your hair. 8 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past. 
For in your sweet dividing ^ throat 
She winters and keeps warm her note. 12 

Ask mc no more where those stars light 
That downwards fall in dead of night. 
For in }'our eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become as in their sphere. 16 

^ dividing means singing in florid style. 



Ask me no more if east or west 
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest. 
For unto you at last she Hies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

SONG 

Wo;dd you know what's soft ? I dare 
Not bring you to the down, or air, 
Nor to stars to show what's bright. 
Nor to snow to teach you white ; 

Nor, if you would music hear, 
Call the orbs to take your ear ; 
Nor, to please your sense, bring forth 
Bruised nard, or what's more worth ; 

Or on food were your thoughts placed. 
Bring you nectar for a taste ; 
Would you have all these in one. 
Name my mistress, and 'tis done ! 



SIR THOMAS BROWNE 

(1605-1682) 

HYDRIOTAPHIA : URN-BURIAL 
CHAPTER V 

Now, since these dead bones have already 
o'utlasted the living ones of Methuselah, and, 
in a yard under ground, and thin walls of clay, 
outworn all the strong and specious ^ buildings 
above it, and quietly rested under the drums 
and tramplings of three conquests ; ^ what 
prince can promise such diuturnity unto his 
reUcs, or might not gladly say, 

"Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim." ^ 

Time, which antiquates antiquities, and hath 
an art to make dust of all things, hath yet 
spared these minor monuments. In vain we 
hope to be known by open and visible con- 
servatories,^ when to be unknown was the 
means of their continuation, and obscurity 
their protection. 

If they died by violent hands, and were 
thrust into their urns, these bones become 
considerable, and some old philosophers would 

1 beautiful -the Saxon, the Danish, and the 
Norman '' Would that I were turned into bones I 
^ repositories 



182 



SIR THOMAS BROWNE 



honoiu: them, whose souls they conceived most 
pure, which were thus snatched from their 
bodies, and to retain a stronger propension^ 
unto them; whereas, they weariedly left a 
languishing corpse, and with faint desires of 
reunion. If they fell by long and aged decay, 
yet wrapped up in the bundle of time, they 
fall into indistinction, and make but one blot 
with infants. If we begin to die when we live, 
and long Ufe be but a prolongation of death, 
our life is a sad composition; we live with 
death, and die not in a moment. How many 
pulses made up the life of Methuselah, were 
work for Archimedes. Common counters ^ sum 
up the life of Moses's man.^ Our days become 
considerable, like petty sums by minute ac- 
cumulations, where numerous fractions make 
up but small round numbers, and our days 
of a span long make not one little finger.* ♦ 

If the nearness of our last necessity brought 
a nearer comformity unto it, there were a hap- 
piness in hoary hairs, and no calamity in half 
senses. But the long habit of living indispos- 
eth us for dying ; when avarice makes us the 
sport of death ; when even David grew politi- 
cally^ cruel ; and Solomon could hardly be 
said to be the wisest of men. But many are 
too early old, and before the date of age. 
Adversity stretcheth our days, misery makes 
Alcmena's nights,^ and time hath no wings 
unto it. But the most tedious being is that 
which can unwish itself, content to be noth- 
ing, or never to have been ; which was beyond 
the malecontent of Job, who cursed not the 
day of his life, but his nativity, content to have 
so far been as to have a title to future being, 
although he had lived here but in a hidden 
state of life, and as it were an abortion. 

What song the Sirens sang, or what name 
Achilles assumed when he hid himself among 
women, though puzzling questions,' are not be- 
yond all conjecture. What time the persons 
of these ossuaries ^ entered the famous nations 
of the dead, and slept with princes and coun- 
sellors, might admit a wide^ solution. But 
who were the proprietaries of these bones, or 
what bodies these ashes made up, were a ques- 

^ tendency to return ^ disks for counting 
* Psalms xc, lo '^According to the ancient arith- 
metic of the hand, wherein the JillJe finger of the right 
hand, contracted, signified a hundred. ^ with crafty 
purpose " of double length '' Put by the emperor 
Tiberius to the grammarians. ^ receptacles for 
bones ^ vague, general 



tion above antiquarianism ; not to be resolved 
by man, nor easily perhaps by spirits, except 
we consult the provincial guardians or tutelary 
observators. Had they made as good provi- 
sion for their names as they have done for their 
relics, they had not so grossly erred in the art 
of perpetuation. But to subsist in bones, and 
be but pyramidally 1 extant, is a fallacy in du- 
ration. Vain ashes, which in the oblivion Of 
names, persons, times, and sexes, have found 
unto themselves a fruitless continuation, and 
only arise unto late posterity, as emblems of 
mortal vanities, antidotes against pride, vain- 
glory, and madding vices. Pagan vainglories, 
which thought the world might last forever, 
had encouragement for ambition ; and finding 
no Atropos- unto the immortality of their 
names, were never damped with the necessity 
of oblivion. Even old ambitions had the 
advantage of ours, in the attempts of their 
vainglories, who, acting early, and before the 
probable meridian ^ of time, have by this time 
found great accomplishment of their designs, 
whereby the ancient heroes have already out- 
lasted their monuments and mechanical pres- 
ervations. But in this latter scene of time 
we cannot expect such mummies unto our 
memories, when ambition may fear the proph- 
ecy of Elias,"* and Charles the Fifth can 
never expect to live within two Methuselahs 
of Hector.^ 

And therefore restless _ inquietude for the 
diuturnity of our memories unto present con- 
siderations, seems a vanity almost out of date, 
and superannuated piece of folly. We cannot 
hope to live so long in our names as some have 
done in their persons. One face of Janus ^ holds 
no proportion unto the other. 'Tis too late 
to be ambitious. The great mutations of the 
world are acted, or time may be too short for 
our designs. To extend our memories by 
monuments, whose death we daily pray for, 
and whose duration we cannot hope, without 
injury to our expectations, in the advent of the 
last day, were a contradiction to our beliefs. 
We, whose generations are ordained in this 
setting part of time, are providentially taken 
off from such imaginations ; and being neces- 

^ in a pj-ramid or other monument ^ the Fate 
who cuts the thread of life ' noon, middle ^ That 
the world may last only six thousand years. ^ Hector's 
fame having lasted more than twice the life of 
Methuselah before the birth of Charles (1500 a.d.). 
^ The tii)o faces of Janus look in opposite directions. 



HYDRIOTAPHIA : URN-BURIAL 



183 



sitated to eye the remaining particle of fu- 
turity, are naturally constituted unto thoughts 
of the next world, and cannot excusably de- 
cline the consideration of that duration, which 
maketh pyramids pillars of snow, and all that's 
past a moment. 

Circles and right lines limit and close all 
bodies, and the mortal right-lined circle^ must 
concludq and shut up all. There is no anti- 
dote against the opium of time, which tempo- 
rarily considereth all things. Our fathers find 
their graves in our short memories, and sadly 
tell us how we may be buried in our survivors. 
Gravestones tell truth scarce forty years.^ 
Generations pass while some trees stand, and 
old families last not three oaks. To be read 
by bare inscriptions, like m.any in Gruter ; ^ to 
hope for eternity by enigmatical epithets, or 
first letters of our names ; to be studied by 
antiquaries, who we were, and have new names 
given us, like m.any of the mummies, are cold 
consolations unto the students of perpetuity, 
even by everlasting languages. 

To be content that times to come should 
only know there was such a man, not caring 
whether they knew more of him, was a frigid 
ambition in Cardan,'* disparaging his horo- 
scopal inclination and judgment of himself. 
Who cares to subsist like Hippocrates's pa- 
tients, or Achilles's horses in Homer, under 
naked nominations,^ without deserts and noble 
acts, which are the balsam of our memories, 
the "entclechia" ^ and soul of our subsis- 
tences ? Yet to be nameless in worthy deeds 
exceeds an infamous history. The Canaan- 
itish woman lives more happily without a 
name, than Herodias with one. And who had 
not rather have been the good thief than 
Mate? 

But the iniquity ^ of oblivion blindly scat- 
tereth her poppy, and deals with the memory 
of men without distinction to merit of per- 
petuity. Who can but pity the founder of the 
pyramids? Erostratus* lives that burnt the 
Temple of Diana ; he is almost lost that built 

^ 0, tl]e character of death ^ In old graveyards 
the old graves were used for netv burials. ^ Gruter's 
Ancient Inscriptions ■* A famous Italian scholar of 
the sixteenth century, who said : "I should like it 
to be known that I lived, I do not care that it 
should be known what sort of man I was." ^ mere 
names '' realizations ^ injustice ^ TIte niglU that 
Alexander the Great was born, Herostratus burnt the 
temple of Diana, at Ephesus, to secure immortal fame. 



it. Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian's ^ 
horse, confounded that of himself. In vain 
we compute our felicities by the advantage of 
our good names, since bad have equal dura- 
tions ; and Thersites ^ is like to live as long as 
Agamemnon.'^ Who knows whether the best 
of men be known, or whether there be not 
more remarkable persons forgot than any that 
stand remembered in the known account of 
time? Without the favour of the everlasting 
register, the first man had been as unknown 
as the last, and Methuselah's long life had 
been his only chronicle. 

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater 
part must be content to be as though they had 
not been, to be found in the register of God, 
not in the record of man. Twenty-seven 
names make up the first story,'* and the re- 
corded names ever since contain not one living 
century. The number of the dead long ex- 
ceedeth all that shall live. The night of 
time far surpasseth the day ; and who knows 
when was the equinox? Every hour adds 
unto that current arithmetic, which scarce 
stands one moment. And since death must 
be the Lucina^ of life, and even Pagans could 
doubt whether thus to live were to die ; since 
our longest sun sets at right declensions, and 
makes but winter arches, and therefore it 
cannot be long before we lie down in darkness, 
and have our light in ashes ; since the brother 
of death daily haunts us with dying memen- 
tos, and time, that grows old itself, bids us 
hope no long duration, diuturnity is a dream 
and folly of expectation. 

Darkness and light divide the course of time, 
and oblivion shares with memory a great part 
even of our living beings. We slightly remem- 
ber our felicities, and the smartest strokes of 
affliction leave but short smart upon us. 
Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows 
destroy us or themselves. To weep mto 
stones are fables. Afflictions induce callosi- 
ties ; miseries are slippery, or fall like snow 
upon us, which, notwithstanding, is no un- 
happy stupidity. To be ignorant of evils to 
come, and forgetful of evils past, is a merciful 
provision in nature, whereby we digest the 
mixture of our few and evil days, and our 

^' the emperor Hadrian - an impudent coward 
in the Greek army against Troy, see the Iliad or 
Troilus and Cressida ^ leader of the Greeks against 
Troy ■• i.e., before the flood, see Gen., iv and v 
* goddess of birth 



1 84 



EDMUND WALLER 



delivered senses not relapsing into cutting 
remembrances, our sorrows are not kept raw 
by the edge of repetitions. A great part of 
antiquity contented their hopes of subsistency 
with a transmigration of their souls ; a good 
way to continue their memories, whUe, having 
the advantage of plural successions, they 
could not but act something remarkable in 
such variety of beings, and enjoying the fame 
of their passed selves, make accumulation of 
glory unto their last durations. Others, 
rather than be lost in the uncomfortable 
night of nothing, were content to recede 
into the common being, and make one particle 
of the public soul of all things, which was no 
more than to return into their unknown and 
divine original again. Egyptian ingenuity 
was more unsatisfied, contriving their bodies 
in sweet consistencies'- to attend the return of 
their souls. But all was vanity, feeding the 
wind and folly. The Egyptian mummies, 
which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice 
now consumeth.^ Mummy is become mer- 
chandise, Mizraim^ cures wounds, and Pharaoh 
is sold for balsams. 

In vain do individuals hope for immortality, 
or any patent from oblivion, in preservations 
below the moon. Men have been deceived 
even in their flatteries above the sun,^ and 
studied conceits to perpetuate their names in 
heaven. The various cosmography of that 
part hath already varied the names of con- 
trived constellations. Nimrod ^ is lost in Orion, 
and Osiris ^ in the Dog-star. While we look for 
incorruption in the heavens, we find they are 
but like the earth, durable in their main 
bodies, alterable in their parts ; whereof, be- 
side comets and new stars, perspectives begin 
to teU tales, and the spots that wander about 
the sun, with Phaethon's favor, would make 
clear conviction. 

There is nothing strictly immortal but im- 
mortality. Whatever hath no beginning, may 
be confident of no end ; which is the peculiar 
of that necessary essence that cannot destroy 
itself, and the highest strain of omnipotency to 
be so powerfully constituted, as not to suffer 
even from the power of itself. All others have 

^ Mummies were made by the use of preservative 
syrups ^ Mummies were sold for use as medicines 
^the ancestor of the Egyptians, according to 
Hebrew tradition, i Chron., i : 8. ■* in the sky 
*the Chaldaic name for the constellation Orion 
®the Egyptian name for Sirius 



a dependent being, and within the reach of 
destruction. But the sufficiency of Christian 
immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and 
the quality of either state after death makes a 
folly of posthumous memory. God, who can 
only destroy our souls, and hath assured our 
resurrection, either of our bodies or names 
hath directly promised no duration. Wherein 
there is so much of chance, that the boldest 
expectants have found unhappy frustration; 
and to hold long subsistence seems but a scape 
in oblivion. But man is a noble animal, 
splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave, 
solemnising nativities and deaths with equal 
lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of bravery in 
the infamy of his nature. . . . 

EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687) 

THE STORY OF PHCEBUS AND 
DAPHNE, APPLIED 

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train, • 
Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain. 
Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous boy ; 
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! 
With numbers^ he the flying nymph pursues, 5 
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use! 
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads. 
O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery 

meads ; 
Invoked to testify the lover's care, 
Or form some image of his cruel fair. 10 

Urged with his fury, like a wounded deer. 
O'er these he fled ; and now approaching near, 
Had reached the nymph with his harmonious 

lay,2 
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. 
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, 15 
Though unsuccessful, was not sinig in vain ; 
All, but the nymph that should redress his 

wrong. 
Attend his passion, and approve his song. 
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise, 
He catched at love, and filled his arm with 

bays. _ 20 

ON A GIRDLE 

That which her slender waist confined, 
Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 
No monarch but would give his crown, 
His arms might do what this has done. 

^ verses ^ song 



THOMAS FULLER 



i8S 



It was my heaven's extremest sphere, s 
The pale which held that lovely deer. 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
Did all within this circle move! 

A narrow compass! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair ; lo 
Give me but what this ribband bound. 
Take all the rest the sun goes round. 

GO, LOVELY ROSE! 

Go, lovely Rose! 

Tell her that wastes her time and me. 

That now she knows, 

When I resemble her to thee. 

How sweet and fair she seems to be. s 

Tell her that's young. 

And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That hadst thou sprung 

In deserts, where no men abide. 

Thou must have uncommended died. lo 

Small is the worth 

Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come forth, 

Suffer herself to be desired. 

And not blush so to be admired. 



15 



Then die! that she 

The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee ; 

How small a part of time they share 

That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 



THOMAS FULLER (1608-1661) 

THE HOLY STATE 

BOOK 11. CHrVPTER XXII 

The Life of Sir Francis Drake 

Francis Drake was born nigh South Tavis- 
tock in Devonshire, and brought up in Kent ; 
God dividing the honour betwixt two coun- 
ties, that the one might have his birth, and the 
other his education. His father, being a min- 
ister, fled into Kent, for fear of the Six Articles, 
wherein the sting of Popery still remained in 
England, though the teeth thereof were 
knocked out, and the Pope's supremacy 
abolished. Coming into Kent, he bound his 



son Francis apprentice to the master of a 
small bark, which traded into France and 
Zealand,^ where he underwent a hard service; 
and pains with patience in his youth, did 
knit the joints of his soul, and made them 
more solid and compacted. His master, 
dying unmarried, in reward of his industry, 
bequeathed his bark unto him for a legacy. 

For some time he continued his master's 
profession ; but the narrow seas were a prison 
for so large a spirit, born for greater under- 
takings. He soon grew weary of his bark; 
which would scarce go alone, but as it crept 
along by the shore: wherefore, selling it, he 
unfortunately ventured most of his estate with 
Captain John Hawkins into the West Indies, 
in 1567 ; whose goods were taken by the Span- 
iards at St. John de Ulva, and he himself 
scarce escaped with life : the king of Spain 
being so tender in those parts, that the least 
touch doth wound him ; and so jealous of the 
West Indies, his wife, that willingly he would 
have none look upon her : he therefore used 
them with the greater severity. 

Drake was persuaded by the minister of his 
ship, that he might lawfully recover in value 
of the king of Spain, and repair his losses upon 
him anywhere else. The case was clear in 
sea-divinity ; and few are such infidels, as not 
to believe doctrines which make for their own 
profit. Whereupon Drake, though a poor 
private man, hereafter undertook to revenge 
himself on so mighty a monarch ; who, as not 
contented that the sun riseth and setteth in his 
dominions, may seem to desire to make all 
his own where he shineth. And now let us 
see how a dwarf, standing on the mount of 
God's providence, may prove an overmatch 
for a giant. 

After two or three several voyages to gain 
inteUigence in the West Indies, and some 
prizes taken, at last he effectually set forward 
from Plymouth with two ships, the one of 
seventy, the other twenty-live, ton.s, and 
seventy-three men and boys in both. He 
made with all speed and secrecy to Nombre 
de Dios, as loath to put the town to too much 
charge (which he knew they would willingly 
bestow) in providing beforehand for his en- 
tertainment ; which city was then the granary 
of the West Indies, wherein the golden harvest 
brought from Panama was hoarded up till it 
could be conveyed into Spain. They came 

^ Zeeland (in the Netherlands) 



i86 



THOMAS FULLER 



hard aboard the shore, and lay quiet all night, 
intending to attempt the town in the dawning 
of the day. 

But he was forced to alter his resolution, and 
assault it sooner ; for he heard his men mut- 
tering amongst themselves of the strength 
and greatness of the town : and when men's 
heads are once fly-blown with buzzes of sus- 
picion, the vermin multiply instantly, and one 
jealousy ^ begets another. Wherefore, he raised 
them from their nest before they had hatched 
their fears ; and, to put away those conceits,^ 
he persuaded them it was day-dawning when 
the moon rose, and instantly set on the town, 
and won it, being un walled. In the market- 
place the Spaniards saluted them with a volley 
of shot ; Drake returned their greeting with a 
flight of arrows, the best and ancient English 
compliment, which drave their enemies away. 
Here Drake received a dangerous wound, 
though he valiantly concealed it a long time ; 
knowing if his heart stooped, his men's would 
fall, and loach to leave off the action, wherein 
if so bright an opportunity once setteth, it 
seldom riseth again. But at length his men 
forced him to return to his ship, that his 
wound might be dressed; and this unhappy 
accident defeated the whole design. Thus 
victory sometimes slips through their fingers 
who have caught it in their hands. 

But his valour would not let him give over 
the project as long as there was either life or 
warmth in it ; and therefore, having received 
intelligence from the Negroes called Symerons,^ 
of many mules'-lading of gold and silver, which 
was to be brought from Panama, he, leaving 
competent numbers to m'an his ships, went on 
land with the rest, and bestowed himself in the 
woods by the wa^^ as they were to pass, and so 
intercepted and carried away an infinite mass 
of gold. As for the silver, which was not 
portable over the mountains, they digged 
holes in the ground and hid it therein. 

There want not those who love to beat down 
the price of every honourable action, though 
they themselves never mean to be chapmen. 
These cry up Drake's fortune herein to cry 
down his valour; as if this his performance 
were nothing, wherein a golden opportunity 
ran his head, with his long forelock, into 
Drake's hands beyond expectation. But, cer- 

^ fear ^ ideas ^ Cimarrones, a band of fugitive 
negroes who gathered on the Isthmus of Panama 
in the sixteenth century 



tainly, his resolution and unconquerable pa- 
tience deserved much praise, to adventure on 
such a design, which had in it just no more 
probability than what was enough to keep it 
from being impossible. Yet I admire ^ not so 
much at all the treasure he took, as at the rich 
and deep mine of God's providence. 

Having now fuU freighted himself with 
wealth, and burnt at the House of Crosses ^ 
above two hundred thousand pounds' worth 
of Spanish merchandise, he returned with 
honour and safety into England, and, some 
years after (December 13th, 1577), undertook 
that his famous voyage about the world, most 
accurately described by our English authors : 
and yet a word or two thereof will not be 
amiss. 

Setting forward from Plymouth, he bore 
up for Cabo-verd,^ where, near to the island of 
St. Jago,^he took prisoner Nuno de Silva, an 
experienced Spanish pilot, whose direction he 
used in the coasts of Brazil and Magellan 
Straits, and afterwards safely landed him at 
Guatulco in New Spain. ^ Hence they took 
their course to the Island of Brava ; and here- 
abouts they met with those tempestuous winds 
whose only praise is, that they continue not an 
hour, in which time they change all the points 
of the compass. Here they had great plenty 
of rain, poured (not, as in other places, as it 
were out of sieves, but) as out of spouts, so 
that a butt of water falls down in a place; 
which, notwithstanding, is but a courteous 
injury in that hot climate far from land, and 
where otherwise fresh water cannot be pro- 
vided. Then cutting the Line,^ they saw the 
face of that heaven which earth hideth from 
us, but therein only three stars of the first 
greatness, the rest few and small compared 
to our hemisphere ; as if God, on purpose, 
had set up the best and biggest candles in 
that room wherein his civUest guests are 
entertained. 

Sailing the south of Brazil, he afterwards 
passed the Magellan Straits (August 20th, 
1578), and then entered Mare Pacific um, 
came to the southernmost land at the height 
of 55^ latitudes ; thence directing his course 
northward, he pillaged many Spanish towns, 
and took rich prizes of high value in the king- 
doms of Chili, Peru, and New Spain. Then, 

^ wonder "^ a Spanish town in Panama ' Cape 
Verde ^ Santiago of the Cape Verde Islands 
^ Mexico '' the equator 



THE HOLY STATE 



187 



bending eastwards^ he coasted China, and the 
Moluccas, where, by the king of Terrenate, a 
true gentleman Pagan, he was most honour- 
ably entertained. The king told them, they 
and he were all of one religion in this respect, 
— that they believed not in gods made of 
stocks and stones, as did the Portugals. He 
furnished them also with all necessaries that 
they wanted. 

On January 9th following (1579), his ship, 
having a large wind and a smooth sea, ran 
aground on a dangerous shoal, and struck 
twice on it ; knocking twice at the door of 
death, which, no doubt, had^ opened the third 
time. Here they stuck, from eight o'clock at 
night till four the next afternoon, having 
ground too much, and yet too little to land 
on ; and water too much, and yet too little 
to sail in. Had God (who, as the wise man 
saith, "holdeth the winds in his fist," Pro v. 
XXX. 4) but opened his little finger, and let 
out the smallest blast, they had undoubtedly 
been cast away ; but there blew not any wind 
all the while. Then they, conceiving aright 
that the best way to lighten the ship was, 
first, to ease it of the burden of their sins by 
true repentance, humbled themselves, by 
fasting, under the hand of God. Afterwards 
they received the communion, dining on 
Christ in the sacrament, expecting no other 
than to sup with him in heaven. Then they 
cast out of their ship six great pieces of 
ordnance, threw overboard as much wealth 
as vrould break the heart of a miser to think 
on it, with much svigar, and packs of spices, 
making a caudle of the sea round about. 
Then they betook themselves to their prayers, 
the best lever at such a dead lift indeed; 
and it pleased God, that the wind, formerly 
their mortal enemy, became their friend ; 
which, changing from the starboard to the 
larboard of the ship, and rising by degrees, 
cleared them off to the sea again, — for which 
they returned unfeigned thanks to Almighty 
God. 

By the Cape of Good Hope and west of 
Africa, he returned safe into England, and 
(November 3rd, 1580) landed at Plymouth, 
(being almost the first of those that made a 
thorough light through the world) having, in 
his whole voyage, though a curious searcher 
after the time, lost one day through the 
variation of several climates. He feasted the 

^ would have 



queen in his ship at Dartford,^ who knighted 
him for his service. Yet it grieved him not a 
little, that some prime courtiers refused the 
gold he offered them, as gotten by piracy. 
Some of them would have been loath to have 
been told, that they had aiirmn Tholosanum ^ 
in their own purses. Some think, that they 
did it to show that their envious pride was 
above their covetousness, who of set purpose 
did blur the fair copy of his performance, 
because they would not take pains to write 
after it. 

I pass by his next West-Indian voyage 
(1585), wherein he took the cities of St. 
Jago, St. Domingo, Carthagena, and St. 
Augustine in Florida ; as also his service 
performed in 1588, wherein he, with many 
others, helped to the waning of that half- 
moon,^ which sought to govern all the motion 
of our sea. I haste to his last voyage. 

Queen Elizabeth, in 1595, perceiving that 
the only way to make the Spaniard a cripple 
forever, was to cut his sinews of war in the 
West Indies, furnished Sir Francis Drake, 
and Sir John Hawkins, with six of her own 
ships, besides twenty-one ships and barks of 
their own providing, containing in all two 
thousand five hundred men and boys, for 
some service on America. But, alas ! this 
voyage was marred before begun. For, so 
great preparations being too big for a cover, 
the king of Spain knew of it, and sent a 
caraval of adviso * to the West Indies ; so 
that they had intelligence three weeks before 
the fleet set forth of England, either to 
fortify or remove their treasure ; whereas, in 
other of Drake's voyages, not two of his own 
men knew whither he went ; and managing 
such a design is like carrying a mine in war, — 
if it hath any vent, all is spoiled. Besides, 
Drake and Hawkins, being in joint commis- 
sion, hindered each other. The latter took 
himself to be inferior rather in success than 
skill ; and the action was unlike to prosper 
when neither would foUoAv, and both could 
not handsomely go abreast. It vexed old 
Hawkins, that his counsel was not followed, 
in present sailing to America, but that they 
spent time in vain in assaulting the Canaries ; 
and the grief that his advice was shghted, 
say some, was the cause of his death. Others 

^ Deptford ^ Spanish gold, as bribes ^ The 
Armada was drawn tip in crescent form. * ship 
of notification 



THOMAS FULLER 



impute it to the sorrow he took for the taking 
of his bark called "the Francis," which five 
Spanish frigates had intercepted. But when 
the same heart hath two mortal wounds given 
it together, it is hard to say which of them 
killeth. 

Drake continued his course for Porto Rico ; 
and, riding within the road, a shot from the 
Castle entered the steerage of the ship, took 
away the stool from under him as he sate at 
supper, wounded Sir Nicholas CHfford, and 
Brute Brown to death. "Ah, dear Brute!" 
said Drake, "I could grieve for thee, but now 
is no time for me to let down my spirits." 
And, indeed, a soldier's most proper bemoan- 
ing a friend's death in war, is in revenging it. 
And, sure, as if grief had made the English 
furious, they soon after fired five Spanish 
ships of two hundred tons apiece, in despite 
of the Castle. 

America is not unfitly resembled to an hour- 
glass, which hath a narrow neck of land (sup- 
pose it the hole where the sand passeth) be- 
twixt the parts thereof, • — Mexicana and 
Peruana. Now the English had a design to 
march by land over this Isthmus, from Porto 
Rico to Panama, where the Spanish treasure 
was laid up. Sir Thomas Baskervile, general 
of the land-forces, undertook the service with 
seven hundred and fifty armed men. They 
marched through deep ways, the Spaniards 
much annoying them with shot out of the 
woods. One fort in the passage they as- 
saulted in vain, and heard two others were 
built to stop . them, besides Panama itself. 
They had so much of this breakfast they 
thought they should surfeit of a dinner and 
supper of the same. No hope of conquest, 
except with cloying the jaws of death, and 
thrusting men on the mouth of the cannon. 
Wherefore, fearing to find the proverb true, 
that "gold may be bought too dear," they 
returned to their ships. Drake afterwards 
fired Nombre de Dios, and many other petty 
towns (whose treasure the Spaniards had 
conveyed away), burning the empty casks, 
when their precious liquor was run out before, 
and then prepared for their returning home. 

Great was the difference betwixt the Indian 
cities now, from what they were when Drake 
first haunted these coasts. At first, the Span- 
iards here were safe and secure, counting their 
treasure sufficient to defend itself, the remote- 
ness thereof being the greatest (almost only) 
resistance, and the fetching of it more than 



the fighting for it. Whilst the king of Spain 
guarded the head and heart of his dominions 
in Europe, he left his long legs in America open 
to blows; till, finding them to smart, being 
beaten black and blue by the English, he 
learned to arm them at last, fortifying the 
most important of them to make them im- 
pregnable. 

Now began Sir Francis's discontent to feed 
upon him. He conceived, that expectation, 
a merciless usurer, computing each day since 
his departure, exacted an interest and return 
of honour and profit proportionable to his 
great preparations, and transcending his for- 
mer achievements. He saw that all the good 
which he had done in this voyage, consisted 
in the evil he had done to the Spaniards afar 
off, whereof he could present but small visible 
fruits in England. These apprehensions, ac- 
companying, if not causing, the disease of the 
flux, wrought his sudden death, Janiiary 28th, 
1595. And sickness did not so much untie 
his clothes, as sorrow did rend at once the 
robe of his mortality asunder. He lived by 
the sea, died on it, and was* buried in it. 
Thus an extempore performance (scarce 
heard to be begun, before we hear it is ended !) 
comes off with better applause, or miscarries 
with less disgrace, than a long-studied and 
openly-premeditated action. Besides, we see 
how great spirits, having mounted to the 
highest pitch of performance, afterwards 
strain and break their credits in striving to 
go beyond it. Lastly, God oftentimes leaves 
the brightest men in an echpse, to show that 
they do but borrow their lustre from his 
reflexion. We will not justify aU the actions 
of any man, though of a tamer profession 
than a sea-captain, in whom civility is often 
counted preciseness. For the main, we say 
that this our captain was a religious man 
towards God and his houses (generally sparing 
churches where he came), chaste in his life, 
just in his deahngs, true of his word, and mer- 
ciful to those that were imder him, hating 
nothing so much as idleness: and therefore, 
lest his soul should rest in peace, at spare 
hours he brought fresh water to Plymouth.^ 
Careful he was for posterity (though men of 
his profession have as well an ebb of riot, as 
a float of fortune) and providently raised a 

^ He was a member of the parliamentary com- 
mission for establishing a system of •waier-icorks 
there. 



JOHN MILTON 



189 



worshipful family of his kindred. In a word : 
should those that speak against him fast till 
they fetch their bread where he did his, they 
would have a good stomach ^ to eat it. 



JOHN MILTON (1608-1674) 

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S 
NATIVITY 

( Composed i62g ) 

This is the month, and this the happy morn. 
Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, 
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, 
Our great redemption from above did bring ; 
For so the holy sages once did sing, 5 

That he our deadly forfeit should release, 
And with his Father work us a perpetual 
peace. 

That glorious form, that light unsufferable. 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 
Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council- 
table 10 
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
He laid aside ; and here with us to be. 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day. 
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal 
clay. 

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred 
vein 1 5 

Afford a present to the Infant God ? 
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, 
To welcome him to this his new abode, 
Now while the heaven, by the sun's team un- 
trod, 
Hath took no print of the approaching light. 
And all the spangled host keep watch in 
squadrons bright? 21 

See how from far upon the eastern road 
The star-led wizards^ haste with odours sweet ! 
O run, prevent ^ them with thy humble ode. 
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; 25 

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, 

And join thy voice unto the angel quire. 
From out his secret altar touched with hal- 
lowed fire. 

^ appetite ^ wise men ' precede 



THE HYMN 

It was the winter wild. 

While the heaven-born child 30 

AH meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; 
Nature, in awe to him, 
Had doffed her gaudy trim. 

With her great Master so to sympathize : 
It was no season then for her 35 

To wanton^ with the sun, her lusty paramour. ^ 

Only with speeches fair 
She woos the gentle air 

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow. 
And on her naked shame, 40 

Pollute^ with sinful blame. 

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; 
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 
Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 

But he, her fears to cease, 45 

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace : 

She, crowned with olive green, came softly 

sliding 
Down through the turning sphere, 
His ready harbinger, 

With turtle ^ wing the amorous clouds 

dividing ; 50 

And waving wide her myrtle wand. 
She strikes a universal peace through sea and 

land. 

No war, or battle's sound, 
Was heard the world around ; 

The idle spear and shield were high up- 
hung ; 55 
The hooked^ chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 
And kings sat still with awful eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was 
by. 60 

But peaceful was the night 
Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of peace upon the earth began : 
The winds, with wonder whist ,^ 
Smoothly the waters kissed, 65 

W^hispering new joys to the mild ocean. 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave. 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the 
charmed wave. 

^ s]3ort ^ lover ^ polluted * turtle dove * pro- 
vided with scythes at the hubs ^ silenced 



IQO 



JOHN MILTON 



The stars with deep amaze, 

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 70 

Bending one way their precious influence, 
And will not take their flight, 
For all the morning light, 

Or Lucifer that often warned them thence ; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 75 

Until their Lord himself bespake and bid 
them go. 

And though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room. 

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed. 
And hid his head for shame, 80 

As^ his inferior flame 

The new-enlightened world no more shovild 
need : 
He saw a greater Sun appear 
Than his bright throne or burning axletree 
could bear. 

The shepherds on the lawn, 85 

Or ere the point of dawn. 

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 
Fvill little thought they than,^ 
That the mighty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them below : 90 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep. 
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 
keep. 

When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet 

As never was by mortal finger strook, 95 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture took: 
The air, such pleasure loath to lose, 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each 
heavenly close. ^ 100 

Nature, that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round 

Of Cynthia's ''seat the airy region thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was done, 105 

And that her reign had here its last fulfill- 
ing : 
She knew such harmony alone 
Could hold all heaven and earth in happier 
union. 

^ as if ^ then ' conclusion of a musical strain 
* the moon 



At last surroimds their sight 
A globe of circular light, no 

That with long beams the shamefaced night 
arrayed ; 
The helmed cherubim 
And sworded seraphim 

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings dis- 
played. 
Harping in loud and solem^n quire, 115 

With unexpressive^ notes, to Heaven's new- 
born heir. 

Such music (as 'tis said) 
Before was never made. 

But when of old the sons of morning sung,^ 
While the Creator great 120 

His constellations set. 

And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep. 
And bid the weltering waves their oozy 
channel keep. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres ! 125 

Once bless our human ears 

(If ye have power to touch our senses so), 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time ; 

And let the bass of heaven's deep organ 
blow; 
And with your ninefold harmony 131 

Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 

For if such holy song 

Enwrap our fancy long, 

Time will run back and fetch the age of 
gold ; 

And speckled Vanity ' 136 

Will sicken soon and die, 

And leprous Sin will melt from earthly 
mould ; 

And Hell itself will pass away, 

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peer- 
ing day. 140 

Yea, Truth and Justice then 
Will down return to men, 

Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories 
wearing, 
Mercy will sit between, 

Throned in celestial sheen, 14S 

With radiant feet the tissued^ clouds down 
steering ; 

^ inexpressible ^ cf. Job xxxviii : 7 ^ rich, as if 
woven with threads of silver and gold 



HYMN ON THE NATIVITY 



191 



And Heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high Palace 
Hall. 

But wisest Fate says no, 

This must not yet be so ; 150 

The Babe yet hes in smiling infancy 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss, 
So both himself and us to glorify : 
Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, 155 

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder 
through the deep. 

With such a horrid clang 
As on ISIount Sinai rang. 

While the red fire and smouldering clouds 
outbrake : 
The aged earth, aghast 160 

With terror of that blast, 

Shall from the surface to the centre shake, 
When at the world's last session, 
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread 
his throne. 

And then at last our bliss 165 

Full and perfect is, 

But now be.gins ; for from this happy day 
The old Dragon^ under ground, 
In straiter limits bound. 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 170 
And wroth to see his kingdom fail. 
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb ; 

No voice or hideous hum 

Rmis through the arched roof in words de- 
ceiving. • 175 

Apollo from his shrine 

Can no more divine, 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos^ 
lea\'ing. 

No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 

Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the pro- 
phetic cell. 180 

The lonely mountains o'er, 
And the resovmding shore, 

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; 
From haunted spring, and dale 
Edged with poplar pale, 185 

The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; 

^ Satan ^ Delphi, where Apollo had a temple, is 
perhaps confused with Deles, where he also had one. 



With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled 
thickets mourn. 

In consecrated earth. 

And on the holy hearth, igo 

The Lars and Lemures'^ moan Vvith midnight 
plaint ; 
In urns and altars round, 
A drear and dying sound 

Affrights the flamens at their service quaint ; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 195 

While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted 
seat. 

Peor and Baalim ^ 
Forsake their temples dim. 

With that twice-battered god of Pales- 
tine ; ' 
And mooned Ashtaroth,'* 200 

Heaven's queen and mother both. 

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; 
The Libyc Hammon ^ shrinks his horn ; 
In vain the Tyrian maids their womided 
Thammuz mourn.® 

And sullen ]\'Ioloch, fled,^ 205 

Hath left in shadows dread 

His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 
In vain with cymbals' ring 
They call the grisly king. 

In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 210 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis^ and Orus^ and the dog Anubis, haste. 

Nor is Osiris ^ seen 

In Memphian grove or green, 

Trampling the unshowered^° grass with low- 

ings loud ; 215 

Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest ;" 

Naught but profoundest Hell can be his 

shroud ; 
In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark. 
The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped 

ark. 220 

^ ghosts ^ cf. Par. Lost, I, 392-482 ^ See i 
Sam. V : 3 and 4 * cf. Par. Lost, I, 438 ff. ^ an 
Egyptian deity represented with large cuiving 
horns ® cf. Par. Lost, I, 446 ff. ^ wife of Osiris 
* son of Isis ^Osiris in the form of Apis, was the 
bull god of Memphis. ^^ It docs not rain- in Egypt. 
^^ Isis gathered the scattered limbs of Osiris, who was 
cut to pieces by his brother. 



192 



JOHN MILTON 



He feels from Juda's land 
The dreaded Infant's hand ; 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; 
Nor all the gods beside 
Longer dare abide, 225 

Not Typhon ^ huge, ending in snaky twine : 
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true. 
Can in his swaddUng bands control the 
damned crew. 

So when the sun in bed, 

Curtained with cloudy red, 230 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave. 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail. 

Each fettered ghost slips to his several 
grave. 
And the yellow-skirted fays 235 

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their 
moon-loved maze. 

But see ! the Virgin blest 

Hath laid her Babe to rest. 

Time is our tedious song should here have 
ending : 

Heaven's youngest-teemed^ star 240 

Hath fixed her polished car. 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp 
attending ; 

And all about the courtly stable 

Bright-harnessed ^ angels sit in order service- 
able. 

L'ALLEGRO 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 

'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks and 
sights unholy ! 
Find out some uncouth cell, 5 

Where brooding darkness spreads his jeal- 
ous wings, 
And the night-raven sings ; 

There under ebon shades and low-browed 
rocks. 
As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 
But come, thou Goddess fair and free, 
In heaven yclept^ Euphrosyne, 
And by men heart-easing Mirth ; 
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 

^ a monster of Greek mythology ^ newest born, 
the star of Bethlehem ^ in bright armor "* called 



With two sister Graces more, 15 

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 

Or whether (as som_e sager sing) 

The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 

Zephyr, with Aurora playing. 

As he met her once a-Maying, 20 

There on beds of violets blue 

And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 

Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 

So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 25 

Jest, and youthful Jollity, 

Quips and cranks and wanton wiles. 

Nods and becks and wreathed smiles. 

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 30 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 

And Laughter, holding both his sides. 

Come, and trip it as you go. 

On the light fantastic toe ; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 

And if I give thee honour due, 

Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 

To live with her, and live v/ith thee, 

In unreproved pleasures free : 40 

To hear the lark begin his flight, 

And singing, startle the dull night,- 

From his watch-tower in the skies, 

Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 

Then to come in spite of sorrow, 45 

And at my window bid good-morrow, 

Through the sweet-briar or the vine, 

Or the twisted eglantine ; 

While the cock, with lively din. 

Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 50 

And to the stack, or the barn-door, 

Stoutly struts his darRes before : 

Oft listening how the hounds and horn 

Cheer ly rouse the slumibering morn. 

From the side of some hoar hfll, 55 

Through the high wood echoing shrill : 

Sometime walking, not unseen. 

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 

Right against the eastern gate 

Where the great sun begins his state, 60 

Robed in flames and amber light, 

The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 

While the ploughman, near at hand, 

Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 

And the mower whets his scythe, 

And every shepherd tells his tale ^ 

^ counts his flock 



IL PENSEROSO 



193 



Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 

Whilst the landskip^ round it measures : 70 

Russet lawns and fallows grey, 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 

Mountains on whose barren breast 

The labouring clouds do often rest ; 

Meadows trim with daisies pied, 75 

Shallow brooks and rivers wide ; 

Towers and battlements it sees 

Bosomed high in tufted trees, 

Where perhaps some beauty lies, 

The cynosure ^ of neighbouring eyes. 80 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 

From betwixt two aged oaks, 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 

Are at their savoury dinner set 

Of herbs and other country messes, 85 

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 

And then in haste her bower she leaves. 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earlier season lead, 

To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 

Sometimes, with secure^ delight. 

The upland hamlets will invite, 

When the merry bells ring round. 

And the jocund rebecks sound 

To many a youth and many a maid 95 

Dancing in the chequered shade ; 

And young and old come forth to play 

On a sunshine holiday. 

Till the livelong daylight fail : 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 

With stories told of many a feat. 

How faer}^ Mab the junkets eat. 

She"* was pinched and puUed, she said; 

And he,* by friar's lantern led. 

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 

When in one night, ere glimpse of mom. 

His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 

That ten day-labourers could not end ; 

Then lies him down, the lubber fiend, no 

And, stretched out all the chimney's length. 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 

And crop-full out of doors he flings. 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the talcs, to bed they creep, 115 

By whispering Avinds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then. 

And the busy hum of men, 

^ landscape ^ Phoenician sailors steered by the 
constellation of the Little Bear, Cynosura. ^ carefree 
* one speaker * another 



Where throngs of knights and barons bold. 
In weeds ^ of peace high triumphs hold, 120 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Rain influence,^ and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen ^ oft appear 125 

In saffron robe, with taper clear. 
And pomp and feast and revelry. 
With mask and anticjue pageantry ; 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 

Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Jonson's learned sock^ be on, 
Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
And ever, against eating cares, 135 

Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce. 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 140 

With wanton heed and giddy cunning. 
The melting voice through mazes running. 
Untwisting all the chains that tie ^ 
The hidden soul of harmony ; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 145 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto to have quite set free 
His half -regained Eurydice. 150 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO 

Hence, vain deluding Joys, 

The brood of Folly without father bred ! 
How little you bested,* 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys? 
Dwell in some idle brain, 5 

And fancies fond ^ with gaudy shapes possess, 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun-beams. 
Or likest hovering dreams. 

The fickle pensioners of jNIorpheus' train. 10 
But hail, thou Goddess sage and holy, 
Hafl, divinest INIelancholy ! 

^ garments ^ Originally influence meant the poiver 
of the stars over human affairs. ^ cf. Epithalaniion, 
11. 25 ff. ■* cf. Jonson's lines on Shakespeare, 11. 36-7 
* aid ^ foolish 



194 



JOHN MILTON 



Whose saintly visage is too bright 

To hit the sense of human sight, 

And therefore to our weaker view 15 

O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 

Black, but such as in esteem 

Prince Memnon's sister ^ might beseem, 

Or that starred Ethiop queen ^ that strove 

To set her beauty's praise above 20 

The sea nymphs, and their powers offended. 

Yet thou art higher far descended : 

Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 

To solitary Saturn bore ; 

His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 25 

Such mixture was not held a stain). 

Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 

He met her, and in secret shades 

Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 

Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 

Sober, steadfast, and demure. 

All in a robe of darkest grain,^ 

Flowing with majestic train, 

And sable stole of cypress lawn * 35 

Over thy decent shoulders dravv'n. 

Come, but keep thy wonted state, 

With even step, and musing gait, 

And looks commercing with the skies, 

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 40 

There, held in holy passion still, 

Forget thyself to marble, till 

With a sad leaden downward cast 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast. 

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 45 

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 50 

But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 

Him that yon^ soars on golden wing, 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. 

The cherub Contemplation ; 

And the mvite Silence hist along, 55 

'Less Philomel® will deign a song. 

In her sweetest, saddest plight, 

Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke^ 

Gently o'er the accustomed oak ; 60 

Sweet bird,® that shunn'st the noise of folly, 

^ Hemera, presumably very beautiful though 
black ^ Cassiopea, who offended the Nereids ; and 
after her death was placed among the stars ^ dye 
* crape * yonder ® the nightingale ^ The chariot of 
the moon, Cynthia, was drawn by dragons. 



Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, 

I woo to hear thy even-song ; 

And missing thee, I walk unseen 65 

On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon, 

Riding near her highest noon, 

Like one that had been led astraj'' 

Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70 

And oft, as if her head she bowed. 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfew sound, 

Over some wide-watered shore, 75 

Swinging slow with sidlen roar ; 

Or if the air will not permit, 

Some still removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, 80 

Far from all resort of mirth. 

Save the cricket on the hearth. 

Or the bellman's drowsy charm 

To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at mxidnight hour 85 

Be seen in some high lonely tower. 

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, 

With thrice-great Hermes ; or unsphere 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 

The immortal mind that hath forsook 

Her mansion in this fleshly nook ; 

And of those demons that are found 

In fire, air, flood, or underground. 

Whose power hath a true consent 95 

With planet or with element. 

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 

In sceptred pail come sweeping by. 

Presenting Thebes', or Pelops' line. 

Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 

Or what (though rare) of later age 

Ennobled hath the buskined^ stage. 

But, O sad Virgin ! that thy power 

Might raise Musaeus from his bower ; 

Or bid the sorJ of Orpheus sing 105 

Such notes as, warbled to the string. 

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek. 

And made Hell grant what love did seek ; 

Or call up him that left half-told 

The story of Cambuscan bold, no 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 

And who had Canace to wife, 

That owned the virtuous- ring and glass, 

And of the wondrous horse of brass 



^ tragic 



^ powerful 



LYCIDAS 



195 



On which the Tartar king did ride ; 115 

And if aught else great bards beside 

In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 

Of turneys, and of trophies hung, 

Of forests, and enchantments drear, 

Where more is meant than m.eets the ear. 1 20 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 

Till civil-suited^ Morn appear, 

Not tricked and frounced as she was wont 

With the Attic boy to hunt, 

But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 125 

While rocking winds are piping loud, 

Or ushered with a shower still, 

When the gust hath blown his fill, 

Ending on the rustling leaves. 

With minute-drops- from off the eaves. 130 

And when the svm begins to Ihng 

His flaring beams, me. Goddess, bring 

To arched walks of twilight groves, 

And shadows brown, that Sylvan^ loves, 

Of pine, or monumental oak, 135 

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke 

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 

Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 

There in close covert by some brook. 

Where no prof an er eye maj^ look, 140 

Hide me from day's garish eye, 

While the bee with honeyed thigh, 

That at her flowery work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring, 

With such consort as they keep, 145 

Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep ; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his Avings in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture displaj'ed. 

Softly on my eyelids laid ; 150 

And as I wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath, 

Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 

Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 155 

To walk the studious cloister's pale,* 

And love the high embowed roof. 

With antique pillars massy proof. 

And storied ^ windows richly dight. 

Casting a dim religious light. 160 

There let the peaUng organ blow. 

To the full-voiced quire below. 

In service high and anthems clear, 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 

Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165 

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 

^ soberly attired ^ slow drops ' god of forests 
4 confines, limits ^ with pictures in stained glass 



And may at last my weary age 

Find out the peaceful hermitage. 

The hairy gown, and mossy cell, 

Where I may sit and rightly spell ^ 170 

Of every star that heaven doth shew. 

And every herb that sips the dew. 

Till old experience do attain 

To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures. Melancholy, give, 175 

And I with thee wiU choose to live. 



LYCIDAS 

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned 

Friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage 

from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; 

and by occasion foretells the ruin 

of our corrupted Clergy, then 

in their height. 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more. 
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,^ 
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,^ 
And with forced fingers rude 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 6 

Compels me to disturb your season due ; 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 10 
Himself^ to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not float upon his watery bier 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well" 15 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth 

spring; 
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse ; 
So may some gentle Muse ^ 
With luck}' words favour my destined urn, 
And as he passes turn, 21 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and 

rill ; 
Together both, ere the high lawns apj>eared 25 
Under the opening eyelids of the morn, 
We drove a-field, and both together heard 
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 
Battening' our flocks with the fresh dews of 

night, 

^interpret ^dry ^unripe * Supply how. * the 
Muses *• poet '' feeding 



196 



JOHN MILTON 



Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright, 
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his west- 
ering wheel. 31 
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, 
Tempered to the oaten flute ; 
Rough Satyrs danced, and Faiuis with cloven 

heel 
From the glad sound would not be absent 

long; 
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. 36 
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, 
Now thou art gone, and never must return ! 
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert 

caves. 
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'er- 

grown. 
And all their echoes, mourn. 41 

The willows and the hazel copses green 
Shall now no more be seen. 
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. 
As killing as the canker to the rose, 45 

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that 

graze. 
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe 

wear. 
When first the white-thorn blows ; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. 
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorse- 
less deep 50 
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep 
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona ^ high. 
Nor yet where Deva^ spreads her wizard 

stream. 
Ay me, I fondly dream ! 56 

Had ye been there — for what could that have 

done? 
What could the Muse^ herself that Orpheus 

bore, 
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, 
Whom universal nature did lament, 60 

When by the rout' that made the hideous roar 
His gory visage down the" stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? 

Alas ! what boots it with uncessant care 
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's 

trade. 
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 66 
Were it not better done, as others use. 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair ? 

^ the isle of Anglesey ^ the river Dee ^ Calliope 
* mob 



Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth 

raise 
(That last infirmity of noble mind) 71 

To scorn delights and live laborious days ; 
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 74 
Comes the blind Fury^ with the abhorred 

shears. 
And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the 

praise," 
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling 

ears : 
"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil 
Nor in the glistering foil 79 

Set off to the Avorld, nor in broad rumour lies ; 
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes 
And perfect witness of all- judging Jove ; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed. 
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured 

flood, 85 

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal 

reeds. 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood : 
But now my oaf^ proceeds. 
And listens to the herald of the sea. 
That came in Neptvme's plea. 90 

He asked the waves, and asked the felon 

winds, 
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle 

swain ? 
And questioned every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked promontory : 
They knew not of his story ; 95 

And sage Hippotades their answer brings. 
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; 
The air was calm, and on the level brine 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. 
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100 

Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses 

dark, 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing 

slow. 
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with 

woe. 106 

"Ah! who hath reft," ^ quoth he, "my dearest 

pledge?" 
Last came, and last did go, 
The pilot of the Galilean lake ; '^ 

^ Atropos, the Fate who severs the thread of 
life ^ shepherd's pipe ^ taken away * St. Peter 



LYCIDAS 



197 



Two massy keys he bore of metals twain no 
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). 
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 
" How well could I have spared for thee, young 

swain, 
Enough of such as for their bellies' sake, 
Creep and intrude and climb into the fold! 
Of other care they little reckoning make 116 
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know 

how to hold 
A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the 

least 
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs-! 
What recks it them? What need they? 

They are sped ; ^ 122 

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel ^ pipes of wretched 

straw ; 
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. 
But swoln with wind and the rank mist they 

draw, 126 

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; 
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing said. 
But that two-handed engine at the door 130 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no 

more." 
Return, Alpheus ; the dread voice is past ' 
That shrunk thy streams ; return, Sicilian 

Muse, 
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells and flowrets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades and wanton winds and gushing 

brooks, 137 

On whose fresh lap the swart''' star sparely 

looks. 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, 
That on the green turf suck the honeyed 

shovvers, 140 

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. 
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. 
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. 
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with 

jet, 
The glowing violet, 145 

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine. 
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive 

head. 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; 

^ They have what they wish ^ thin, slender 
^ dark, injurious 



Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, 

And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 150 

To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. 

For so to interpose a little ease. 

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise, 

Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding 

seas 
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled ; 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 156 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; ^ 
Or whether thou, to our moist ^ vows denied, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160 

Where the great vision of the guarded mount 
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold. 
Look homeward. Angel, now, and melt with 

ruth; 3 
And O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. 
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no 

more. 
For Lycidas, your sorrow,^ is not dead, 166 
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; 
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, 
And yet anon repairs his drooping head. 
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled 

ore 
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 172 
Through the dear might of him that walked 

the waves, 
Where, other groves and other streams along. 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 
And hears the unexpressive ^ nuptial song. 
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the saints above, 
In solemn troops and sweet societies. 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 180 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; 
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185 
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks 

and rills, 
Whfle the still morn went out with sandals 

gray; 
He touched the tender stops of various quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : 
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the western bay. 191 
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : 
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

^ world of monsters ^ tear- wet ^ pit\^ ^ the 
object of your sorrow ^ ine.xpressible 



1 98 



JOHN MILTON 



ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE 
AGE OF TWENTY-THREE 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 

youth, 
Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth 

year ! 
My hasting days fly on v/ith full career. 
But my late spring no bud or blossom 

shew'th. 
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 

truth 5 

That I to manhood am arrived so near ; 
And inward ripeness doth much less ap- 
pear, 
That some more timely-happy spirits 

endu'th. 
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow. 

It shall be still in strictest measure even lo 
To that same lot, however mean or high. 
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of 

Heaven ; 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 



WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS IN- 
TENDED TO THE CITY 

Captain, or Colonel,^ or Knight in arms. 
Whose chance on these defenceless doors 

may seize, 
If ever deed of honour did thee please, 
Guard them, and him within protect from 

harms. 
He can requite thee; for he knows the 

charms 
That call fame on such gentle acts as 

these. 
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and 

seas, 7 

Whatever clime the sun's bright circle 

warms. 
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower : 
The great Emathian conqueror ^ bid spare 
The house of Pindarus, when temple and 

tower 1 1 

Went to the ground ; and the repeated air 
Of sad Electra's poet* had the power 
To save the Athenian walls from ruin 

bare. 

^ Pronounced trisyllabic "^ iVlexander the Great 
' Euripides 



TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL 

MAY, 1652 

On the Proposals of Certain Ministers at the 
Committee jar Propagation of the Gospel 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a 

cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude. 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast 

ploughed. 
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 5 
Hast reared God's trophies, and his work 

pursued. 
While Darwen stream,^ with blood of Scots 

imbrued. 
And Dunbar field, ^ resounds thy praises 

loud, 
And Worcester's * laureate wreath : yet much 

remains 
To conquer still ; peace hath her victories 
No less renowned than war: new foes 

arise, 1 1 

Threatening to bind our souls with secular 

chains. 
Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their 

maw.^ 

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN 
PIEDMONT 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose 

bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old 
When all our fathers worshipped stocks 

and stones, 
Forget not : in thy book record their groans 5 
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient 

fold 
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their 

moans 
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
To heaven. Their martyred blood and 

ashes sow 10 

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth 

sway 

^ near Preston, where Cromwell defeated the 
royalist Scots in Aug., 1648 ^ Sept., 1650 * Sept., 
1651 '' Cf. Lycidas, II. 113-131. 



PARADISE LOST 



199 



The triple tyrant ; ^ that from these may grow 
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.^ 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and 

wide. 
And that one talent ^ which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul 
mo^e bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, -and present 5 
My true account, lest he returning chide ; 
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? " 
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not 
need 
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who 
best 10 

Bear his mUd yoke, they serve him best. 
His state 
Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

TO CYRIACK SKINNER 

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, 

though clear 
To outward view, of blemish or of spot, 
Bereft of hght, their seeing have forgot; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun or moon or star throughout the year, 5 
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a 

jot 
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
Right onward. W'hat supports me, dost thou 

ask? 
The conscience,^ friend, to have lost them 

overplied 10 

In libert)''s defence, my noble task. 
Of which aU Europe talks from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the 

world's vain mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better 

guide. 

^ the Pope (alluding to his triple crown) ^ Tlie 
Puritans interpreted the biblical denuticiations 
of Babylon as directed prophetically against the 
Catholic Church. ^ his ability to write * conscious- 
ness 



PARADISE LOST 

BOOK I 

Of Man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal ^ taste 
Brought death into the world, and aU our woe, 
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 5 

Sing, Heavenly Muse, that on the secret top 
Of dreb,^ or of Sinai,^ didst inspire 
That shepherd who first taught the chosen 

seed 
In the beginning how the Heavens and Earth 
Rose out of Chaos: or, if Sion hill 10 

Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that 

flowed 
Fast by^ the oracle of God, I thence 
Invoke thy aid to my 'adventurous song, 
That with no middle flight intends to soar 
Above the Aonian mount, ^ while it pursues 15 
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. 
And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer 
Before all temples the upright heart and pure, 
Instruct me, for Thou know'st ; Thou from 

the first 
Wast present, and, with mighty wdngs out- 
spread, • 20 
Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast Abj'^ss, 
And mad'st it pregnant : what in me is dark 
Illumine, what is low raise and support ; 
That to the highth of this great argument ^ 
I may assert Eternal Providence, 25 
And justify the ways of God to men. 

Say first — for Heaven hides nothing from 

Thy view. 
Nor' the deep tract of Hell — say first what 

cause 
Moved our grand parents, in that happy state. 
Favoured of Heaven so highly, to fall off 30 
From their Creator, and transgress his will 
For one restraint, lords of the world besides. 
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt ? 
The infernal Serpent ; he it was, whose 

g^'-ile, _ _ 34 

Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived 
The mother of mankind, what time^ his pride 
Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his 

host 
Of rebel Angels, by whose aid, aspiring 

^ deadly ^ The Ten Commandnients were given on 
Horeb or Sinai. ^ close by * Mt. Helicon ; here, 
figuratively, for Greek poetry ^ subject ^ at the 
time when 



200 



JOHN MILTON 



To set himself in glory above his peers, 
He trusted to have equalled the Most High, 
If he opposed ; and with ambitious aim 41 
Against the throne and monarchy of God 
Raised impious war in Heaven, and battle 

proud, 
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty 

Power 
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal 

sky, _ _ 45 

With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless perdition ; there to dwell 
In adamantine^ chains and penal fire, 
Who durst defy the Ommipotent to arms. 
Nine times the space that measures day 

and night 50 

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
La)^ vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf. 
Confounded, though ' immortal. But his 

doom 
Reserved him to more wrath ; for now the 

thought 
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 55 
Torments him ; round he throws his baleful 

eyes, 
That witnessed ^ huge affliction and dismay. 
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast 

hate. 
At once, as far as Angels ken,^ he views 
The dismal situation waste and wild : 60 

A dimgeon horrible on all sides round 
As one great furnace flamed ; yet from those 

flames 
No light ; but rather darkness visible 
Served only to discover sights of woe, 
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where 

peace " 65 

And rest can never dwell, hope never comes 
That comes to all ; but torture without end 
StiU urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed. 
Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 70 
For those rebellious ; here their prison or- 
dained 
In utter ^ darkness, and their portion set, 
As far removed from God and light of Heaven 
As from the centre thrice to the utmost pole.^ 
Oh how unlike the place from whence they 

fell! _ 75 

There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed 
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous 

fire, 

^ unbreakable ^ gave evidence of ^ see ^ outer 
^ pole of the universe 



He soon discerns ; and, weltering by his side, 
One next himself in power, and next in crime, 
Long after known in Palestine, and named 80 
Beelzebub. To whom the Arch-Enemy, 
And thence in Heaven called Satan, with 

bold Avords 
Breaking the horrid silence, thus began : — 
"If thou beest he — but Oh how fallen! 
how changed 
From him, who in the happy realms of light 85 
Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst 

outshine 
Myriads, though bright ! — if he wlfom mu- 
tual league, 
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
And hazard in the glorious enterprise, 
Joined with me once, now misery hath joined 
In equal ruin — into what pit thou seest 9 1 
From what highth fallen : so much the 

stronger proved 
He with his thunder : and till then who knew 
The force of those dire arms? Yet not for 

those, 
Nor what the potent Victor in his rage 95 
Can else inflict, do I repent, or change. 
Though changed in outward lustre, that fixed 

mind, 
And high disdain from sense of injured merit, 
That with the Mightiest raised me to contend. 
And to the fierce contention brought along 
Innumerable force of Spirits armed, loi 

That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring, 
Flis utmost power with adverse power opposed 
In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven, 
And shook his throne. What though the 
field be lost? 105 

All is not lost : the unconquerable will, 
And study ^ of revenge, immortal hate. 
And courage never to submit or yield. 
And what is else not to be overcome ; 109 
That glory never shall his wrath or might 
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace 
With suppliant knee, and deify his power 
Who, from the terror of this arm, so late 
Doubted his empire ^ — that were low indeed ; 
That were an ignominy and shame beneath 
This downfall; since by fate the strength of 
gods 116 

And this empyreal' substance cannot fail; 
Since, through experience of this great event, 
In arms not worse, in foresight much ad- 
vanced, 

^ continued endeavor ^ authority and power 
' divine, cf. 1. 138 



PARADISE LOST 



20I 



. We may with more successful hope resolve 
To wage by force or guile eternal war, 121 
Irreconcilable to our grand Foe, 
Who now triumphs, and in the excess of joy 
Sole reigning holds the tyranny of Heaven." 
So spake the apostate Angel, though in 

pain, _ 125 

Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair ; 
And him thus answered soon his bold com- 
peer : — 
"O Prince! O Chief of many throned 

powers, 
That led the embattled Seraphim to war 
Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds 
Fearless, endangered Fleaven's perpetual 

King, _ 131 

And put to proof his high supremacy. 
Whether upheld by strength, or chance, or 

fate! 
Too well I see and, rue the dire event 
That with sad overthrow and foul defeat 135 
Hath lost us Heaven, and all this mighty host 
In horrible destruction laid thus low, 
As far as gods and Heavenly essences 
Can perish : for the mind and spirit remains 
Invincible, and vigor soon returns, 140 

Though all our glory extinct, and happy state 
Here swallowed up in endless miser3^ 
But what if he our Conqueror (whom I now 
Of force,^ believe almighty, since no less 
Than such could have o'erpowered such force 

as ours) 145 

Have left us this our spirit and strength entire. 
Strongly to suffer and support our pains, 
That we may so suffice his vengeful ire ; 
Or do him mightier service, as his thralls 
By right of war, whate'er his business be, 150 
Here in the heart of Hell to work in fire. 
Or do his errands in the gloomy Deep? 
What can it then avail, though yet we feel 
Strength undiminished, or eternal being 
To undergo eternal punishment?" 155 

Whereto with speedy words the Arch- 

Fiend replied : — 
"Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable, 
Doing or suffering : but of this be sure — 
To do aught good never wiU be our task. 
But ever to do ill our sole delight, 160 

As being the contrary to his high will 
Whom we resist. If then his providence 
Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, 
Our labour must be to pervert that end, 
And out of good still to find means of evil ; 165 

^ necessarily 



Which ofttimes may succeed so as perhaps 
Shall grieve him, if I fail not,^ and disturb 
His inmost counsels from their destined aim. 
But see 1 the angry Victor hath recalled 
His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 170 
Back to the gates of Heaven ; the sulphurous 

hail, 
Shot after us in storm, o'erblown hath laid 
The fiery surge that from the precipice 
Of Heaven received us falling ; and the 

thunder. 
Winged with red lightning and impetuous 

rage, _ 175 

Perhaps hath spent his ^ shafts, and ceases now 
To bellow through the vast and boundless 

Deep. 
Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn 
Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe. 
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild. 
The seat of desolation, void of light, 181 

Save what the glimmering of these livid ^ 

"flames 
Casts pale and dreadful ? Thither let us tend * 
From off the tossing of these fiery waves ; 
There rest, if any rest can harbour there ; 185 
And, reassembling our afflicted powers, 
Consult how we may henceforth most ofi'end ^ 
Our Enemy, our own loss how repair. 
How overcome this dire calamity, 
What reinforcement we may gain from hope, 
If not, what resolution from despair." 191 

Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate. 
With head uplift above the wave, and eyes 
That sparkling blazed ; his other parts besides, 
Prone on the flood, extended long and large. 
Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 196 
As whom the fables name of monstrous size, 
Titanian,^ or Earth-born, that warred on Jove, 
Briareos or JT3'phon,^ whom the den 
By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast 200 
Leviathan,^ which God of all his works 
Created hugest that swim the ocean-stream. 
Him, haply slunibering on the Norway foam, 
The pilot of some small night-foundered^ skift" 
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, 205 
With fixed anchor in his scaly rind, 
Moors by his side under the lee, while night 
Invests ^° the sea, and wished morn delays. 
So stretched out huge in length the Arch- 

Fiend lay, 

^ if I mistake not ^ its ^ blue-black * go ^ injure 
^ cf. II. 509 ff. ^ gigantic monsters of Greek my- 
thology ^ in Job xli : i the crocodile, but here the 
whale ^ overtaken by night ^"^ covers 



202 



JOHN MILTON 



Chained on the burning lake ; nor ever thence 
Had. risen or heaved his head, but that the 

will 211 

And high permission of all-ruling Heaven 
Left him at large to his own dark designs, 
That with reiterated crimes he might 
Heap on himself damnation, while he sought 
Evil to others, and enraged might see 216 
How all his malice served but to bring forth 
Iniinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shewn 
On Man by him seduced ; but on himself 
Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance 

poured. 220 

Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool 

His mighty stature ; on each hand the flames 

Driven backward slope their pointing spires, 

and, rolled 
In billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale. 
Then with expanded wings he steers his flight 
Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 226 

That felt unusual weight ; till on dry land 
He lights — if it were land that ever burned 
With solid, as the lake with liquid fire. 
And such appeared in hue, as when the force 
Of subterranean wind transports a hill 231 
Torn from Pelorus,^ or the shattered side 
Of thundering ^tna, whose combustible 
And fuelled entrails thence conceiving^ fire, 
Sublimed^ with mineral fury, aid the winds, 
And leave a singed bottom all involved 236 
With stench and smoke : such resting found 

the sole 
Of unblest feet. Him followed his next mate. 
Both glorying to have 'scaped the Stygian 

flood 239 

As gods, and by their own recovered strength, 
Not by the sufferance of supernal power. 

"Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," 
Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat 
That we must change for Heaven?* this 

mournfid gloom 
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he 
Who now is sovran can dispose and bid 246 
What shall be right : farthest from him is best, 
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made 

supreme 
Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields, 
Where joy forever dwells! HaiJ, horrors! 

hail, 250 

Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest Hell, 
Receive thy new possessor, one who brings 

^ the northeast point of Sicily - catching ^ gasi- 
fied * A Latinism, the thing exchanged is put last, 
of. Jonson's Drink to me only with thine eyes, 1. 8. 



A mind not to be changed by place or time. 
The mind is its own place, and in itself 
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. 
What matter where, if I be still the same, 256 
And what I should be, all but less than he 
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at 

least 
We shall be free ; the Almighty hath not built 
Here for his envy,^ will not drive us hence : 
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice 
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell : 
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven. 
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, 
The associates and co-partners of our loss, 265 
Lie thus astonished ^ on the oblivious^ pool, 
And call them not to share with us their part 
In this unhappy mansion,'' or once more 
With rallied arms to try what may be yet 
Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in 

Hell?" . 270 

So Satan spake ; and him Beelzebub 
Thus answered: — "Leader of those armies 

bright 
Which but the Omnipotent none could have 

foiled. 
If once they hear that voice, their liveliest 

pledge 
Of hope in fears and dangers — heard so oft 
In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge 
Of battle when it raged, in all assaults 277 
Their surest signal — they will soon resume 
New courage and revive, though now they lie 
Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire, 
As we erewhile, astounded and amazed : 2S1 
No wonder, fallen such a pernicious highth!" 
He scarce had ceased when the superior 

Fiend 
Was moving toward the shore ; his ponderous 

shield, 
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 285 
Behind him cast. The broad circumference 
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose 

orb 
Through optic glass ^ the Tuscan artist^ \dews 
At evening from the top of Fesole, 
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 290 

Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. 
His spear — to equal which the tallest pine 
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast 
Of some great ammiral,^ were but a wand — 
He walked with, to support uneasy steps 295 
Over the burning marie, not like those steps 

^ hate " astounded ^ causing oblivion * dwelling 
^ telescope "^ Galileo " flag-ship 



PARADISE LOST 



203 



On Heaven's azure ; and the torrid clime 
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire. 
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach 
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called 300 
His legions, angel forms, who lay entranced. 
Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the 

brooks 
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades 
High over-arched embower ; or scattered sedge 
Afloat, when \vith fierce winds Orion ^ armed 
Hath vexed the Red-Sea coast, whose waves 

o'erthrew 306 

Busiris - and his Memphian chivalry,^ 
While with perfidious hatred they pursued 
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld 
From the safe shore their floating carcases 
And broken chariot-wheels : so thick be- 

strown, 311 

Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood, 
Under amazement of their hideous change. 
He called so loud that all the hollow deep 
Of Hell resoxmded: — "Princes, Potentates, 
Warriors, the Flower of Heaven — once 

yours, now lost, 316 

If such astonishment as this can seize 
Eternal Spirits ! Or have ye chosen this place 
After the toil of battle to repose 
Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find 
To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven ? 
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 322 
To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds 
Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood 
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 325 
His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discern 
The advantage, and descending tread us down 
Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts 
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf? 
Awake, arise, or be forever fallen !" 330 

They heard, and were abashed, and up they 

sprung 
Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch. 
On duty sleeping found bj'' whom they dread, 
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake. 
Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 335 
In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel ; 
Yet to their General's voice they soon obeyed 
Innumerable. As when the potent rod 
Of Amram's son,'* in Egypt's evil day. 
Waved round the coast, up called a pitchy 

cloud 340 

Of locusts, warping^ on the eastern wind, 

^ a constellation supposed to cause storms 
^ Pharaoh ^ horsemen ■• Moses ^ moving in irregu- 
lar flight 



That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung 
Like night, and darkened all the land of Nile : 
So numberless were those bad angels seen 
Hovering on wing under the cope of Hell, 345 
'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires ; 
Till, as a signal given, the uplifted spear 
Of their great Sultan waving to direct 
Their course, in even balance down they, light 
On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain : 
A multitude like which the populous North 
Poured never from her frozen loins, to pass 
Rhene^ or the Danaw,^ when her barbarous 

sons ^ 
Came like a deluge on the South, and spread 
Beneath* Gibraltar to the Libyan sands. 355 
Forthwith, from every squadron and each 

band. 
The heads and leaders thither haste where 

stood 
Their great Commander ; godlike shapes, 

and forms 
Excelling human, princely Dignities, 359 

And Powers that erst ^ in Heaven sat on 

thrones ; 
Though of their names in Heavenly records 

now 
Be no memorial, blotted out and rased 
By their rebellion from the Books of Life. 
Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve 
Got them new names, till, wandering o'er the 

earth, 365 

Through God's high sufferance for the trial of 

man. 
By falsities and lies the greatest part 
Of mankind they corrupted to forsake 
God their Creator, and the invisible 
Glory of him that made them, to transform 
Oft to the image of a brute, adorned 371 

With gay religions^ full of pomp and gold. 
And devils to adore for deities : 
Then were they known to men by various 

names. 
And various idols through the heathen world. 
Say, Muse, their names then known, who 

first, who last, 376 

Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch, 
At their great Emperor's call, as next in worth, 
Came singly where he stood on the bare strand, 
While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof. 
The chief were those who, from the pit of 

Hell 381 

* Rhine ^ Danube ^ Vandals and other barba- 
rians, who overran the Roman Empire ^ south of 
^ formerly ^ religious rites 



204 



JOHN MILTON 



Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst fix 
Their seats, long after, next the seat of God, 
Their altars by his altar, gods adored 
Among the nations round, and durst abide 
Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned 386 
Between the Cherubim ; yea, often placed 
Within his sanctuary itself their shrines, 
Abominations ; and with cursed things 
His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned. 
And with their darkness durst affront his 

light. 391 

First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with 

blood 
Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears. 
Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels 

loud, 
Their children's cries unheard that passed 

through fire 395 

To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite 
Worshipped in Rabba and her watery plain, 
In Argob and in Basan, to the stream 
Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such 
Audacious neighbourhood, the wisest heart 
Of Solomon he led by fraud to build 401 

His temple right against the temple of God 
On that opprobrious ^ hill, and made his grove 
The pleasant valley of Hinnon, Tophet thence 
And black Gehenna called, the type of Hell. 
Next Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's 

sons, 406 

From Aroar to Nebo and the wild 
Of southmost Abarim ; in Hesebon 
And Horonaim, Seon's realm, beyond 
The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines, 
And Eleale to the Asphaltic pool.^ 411 

Peor his other name, when he enticed 
Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile, 
To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe. 
Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged 415 
Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove 
Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate, 
Till good Josiah drove them thence to Hell. 
With these came they who, from the bordering 

flood 
Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts 420 
Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names 
Of Baalim and Ashtaroth — those male. 
These feminine. For Spirits, when they 

please, 
Can either sex assume, or both ; so soft 
And uncompounded is their essence pure, 425 
Not tied or manacled with joint or limb. 
Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones, 

^ offensive ''■ the Dead Sea 



Like cumbrous flesh ; but, in what shape they 

choose, 
Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure. 
Can execute their aery purposes, 430 

And works of love or enmity fulfil. 
For those the race of Israel oft forsook 
Their living Strength, and unfrequented left 
His righteous altar, bowing lowly down 434 
To bestial gods; for which their heads as low 
Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear 
Of despicable foes. With these in troop 
Came Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians called 
Astarte, Queen of Pleaven, with crescent horns ; 
To whose bright image nightly by the moon 
Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs ; 
In Sion also not unsung, where stood 442 
Her temple on the oft'ensive mountain, built 
By that uxorious king^ whose heart, though 

large. 
Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell 445 

To idols foul. Thammuz came next behind, 
Wliose annual wound in Lebanon allured 
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate 
In amorous ditties all a summer's day, 449 
While smooth Adonis from his native rock 
Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood 
Of Thammuz yearly wounded : the love-tale 
Infected Sion's daughters with like heat, 
Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch 
Ezekiel saw,^ when, by the vision led, 455 
His eye surveyed the dark idolatries 
Of alienated Judah. Next came one 
Who mourned in earnest, when the captive 

ark 
Maimed his brute image, head and hands lopt 

off 
In his own temple,^ on the grunsel-edge,^ 460 
Where he fell flat, and shamed his worshippers : 
Dagon his name, sea-monster, upward man 
And downward fish ; yet had his temple high 
Reared in Azotus,^ dreaded through the coast 
Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon, 465 

And Accaron and Gaza's frontier bounds. 
Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat 
Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks 
Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams. 
He also against the house of God was bold : 470 
A leper'' once he lost, and gained a king, 
Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew 
God's altar to disparage and displace 
For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn 
His odious offerings, and adore the gods 475 

^ Solomon ^ Ezek. viii : 14 •'' Cf. Ode, on ilie 
Nativity, 1. 199 ■* threshold ^ Ashdod '' Naaman 



PARADISE LOST 



205 



Whom he had vanquished. After these ap- 
peared 
A crew who, under names of old renown, 
Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train. 
With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused 
Fanatic Egypt and her priests, to seek 480 
Their wandering gods disguised in brutish 

forms 
Rather than human. Nor did Israel 'scape 
The infection, when their borrowed gold 

composed 
The calf in Oreb ; and the rebel king 
Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan, 485 
Likening his Maker to the grazed ox — 
Jehovah, who, in one night, when he passed 
From Egypt marching, equalled with one 

stroke 
Both her first-born and all her bleating gods. 
Belial came last, than whom a Spirit more 

lewd 
Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love 
Vice for itself. To him no temple stood 492 
Or altar smoked ; yet who more oft than he 
In temples and at altars, when the priest 
Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled 
With lust and violence the house of God ? 496 
In courts and palaces he also reigns. 
And in luxurious cities, where the noise 
Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers, 
And injury and outrage ; and when night 500 
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the 

sons 
Of Belial, flown ^ with insolence and wine. 
Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night 
In Gibeah, when the hospitable door 
Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape. 505 
TThese were the prime in order and in might ; 
The rest were long to tell, though far re- 
nowned 
The Ionian gods — of Javan's^ issue held 
Gods, yet confessed later than Heaven and 

Earth, 
Their boasted parents ; — Titan, Heaven's 
first-born, 510 

With his enormous brood, and birthright 

seized 
By younger Saturn ; he from mightier Jove, 
His own and Rhea's son, like measure found ; 
So Jove usurping reigned. These, first in 

Crete 
And Ida known, thence on the snowy top 515 
Of cold Olympus ruled the middle air, 

^ filled, flushed ' son of Japheth and ancestor 
of the Greeks 



Their highest Heaven ; or on the Delphian 

_ cliff, 
Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds 
Of Doric land ; or who with Saturn old 
Fled over Adria to the Hesperian fields,^ 520 
And o'er the Celtic roamed the utmost isles. 
All these and more came flocking ; but with 
looks 
Downcast and damp, yet such wherein ap- 
peared 
Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have found 

their Chief 
Not in despair, to have found themselves not 
lost _ _ 525 

In loss itself ; which on his countenance cast 
Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted pride 
Soon recollecting,^ with high words that bore 
Semblance of worth, not substance, gently' 

raised 
Their fainting courage, and dispelled their 
fears : 530 

Then straight commands that at the warlike 

sound 
Of trumpets loud and clarions, be upreared 
His mighty standard. That proud honour 

claimed 
Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall : 
Who forthwith from the glittering staff un- 
furled _ _ _ 535 
The imperial ensign, which, full high advanced, 
Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, 
With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,* 
Seraphic arms and trophies ; all the while 
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds : 540 
At which the universal host up-sent 
A shout that tore Hell's concave, and beyond 
Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 
All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
Ten thousand banners rise into the air, 545 
With orient colours waving ; with them rose 
A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms 
Appeared, and serried shields in thick array 
Of depth immeasurable. Anon they move 
In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood^ 550 
Of flutes and soft recorders — such as raised 
To highth of noblest temper heroes old 
Arming to battle, and instead of rage 
Deliberate valour breathed, firm and unmoved 
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat ; 
Nor w^anting power to mitigate and swage,^ 
With solemn touches, troubled thoughts, and 
chase 557 

^ Italy ^ resuming ' gallantly •• ornamented 
^ music of the solemn Dorian mode '' assuage 



2o6 



JOHN MILTON 



Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and 

pain 
From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, 
Breathing united force with fixed thought, 560 
Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed 
Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil; and 

now 
Advanced in view they stand, a horrid front 
Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise 
Of warriors old, with ordered spear and shield, 
Awaiting what command their mighty Chief 
Had to impose. He through the armed files 
Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse^ 
The whole battahon views — their order due. 
Their visages and stature as of gods ; 570 

Their number last he sums. And now his 

heart 
Distends with pride, and hardening in his 

strength 
Glories ; for never, since created man, 
Met such embodied force as, named with 

these. 
Could merit more than that small infantry ^ 575 
Warred on by cranes: though all the giant 

brood 
Of Phlegra ^ with the heroic race were joined 
That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side 
Mixed with auxiliar gods ; and what resounds 
In fable or romance of Uther's son,^ 580 

Begirt -with British and Armoric knights; 
And all who since, baptized or infidel, 
Jousted in Aspramont,^ or Montalban, 
Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond ; 
Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore 585 
When Charlemain with all his peerage fell 
By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond 
Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed 
Their dread commander. He, above the rest 
In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 590 
Stood like a tower ; his form had yet not lost 
All her original brightness, nor appeared 
Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess 
Of glory obscured : as when the sun new- 
risen 
Looks through the horizontal misty air 595 
Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon, 
In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
On half the nations, and with fear of change 
Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone 
Above them all the Archangel ; but his face 

^ cross-wise ^ the Pygmies ^ where the gods and 
giants fought "^ King Arthur ^ This and the fol- 
lowing are places celebrated in the romances of 
Charlemagne. 



Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and 
care 601 

Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 
Of dauntless courage, and considerate^ pride 
Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast 
Signs of remorse^ and passion, to behold 605 
The fellows of his crime, the followers rather 
(Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned 
Forever now to have their lot in pain ; 
Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced ^ 
Of Heaven, and from eternal splendors flung 
For his revolt ; yet faithful how they stood. 
Their glory withered : as, when Heaven's fire 
Hath scathed'' the forest oaks or mountain 

pines, 
With singed top their stately growth, though 

bare. 
Stands on the blasted heath. He now pre- 
pared 615 
To speak ; whereat their doubled ranks they 

bend 
From wing to wing, and half enclose him 

round 

With all his peers : attention held them mute. 

Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn. 

Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth : at 

last 620 

Words interwove with sighs found out their 

way : — 

" O myriads of immortal Spirits ! O powers 

Matchless, but with the Almighty ! — and 

■ that strife 
"Was not inglorious, though the event was dire, 
As this place testifies, and this dire change, 625 
Hateful to utter. But what power of mind. 
Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
Of knowledge past or present, could have 

feared 
How such united force of gods, how such 
As stood like these, coidd ever know repulse? 
For who can yet believe, though after loss, 63 1 
That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to reascend. 
Self -raised, and repossess their native seat ? 
For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, 635 
If counsels different, or dangers shunned 
By me, have lost our hopes. But he who 

reigns 
Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure 
Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute. 
Consent or custom, and his regal state 640 
Put forth at full, but still his strength con- 
cealed ; 

^ calm ^ pity ^ deprived ■* injured 



PARADISE LOST 



207 



Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our 

fall. 
Henceforth his might we know, and know our 

own, 
So as not either to provoke, or dread 
New war provoked. Our better part remains 
To work in close ^ design, by fraud or guile, 646 
What force effected not ; that he no less 
At length from us may find, who overcomes 
By force hath overcome but half his foe. 
Space may produce new worlds ; whereof so 

rife 650 

There went a fame in Heaven that he erelong 
Intended to create, and therein plant ■ 
A generation whom his choice regard 
Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven. 
Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 655 
Our first eruption : tluther or elsewhere ; 
For this infernal pit shall never hold 
Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor the Abyss 
Long under darkness cover. But these 

thoughts. 
Full comisel must mature. Peace is despaired, 
For who can think submission? War, then, 

war 661 

Open or understood,^ must be resolved." 
He spake ; and, to confirm his words, out-flew 
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the 

tliighs 
Of mighty Cherubim ; the sudden blaze 665 
Far roimd fllumined Hell. Highly they raged 
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped 

arms 
Clashed on their sounding shields the din of 

war. 
Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven. 
There stood a hfll not far, whose grisly 

top 670 

Belched fire and rolling smoke ; the rest entire 
Shone with a glossy scurf, undoubted sign 
That in his womb^ was hid metallic ore. 
The work of sulphur. Thither, winged, with 

speed, 
A numerous brigade hastened : as when 

bands 675 

Of pioneers,^ with spade and pickaxe armed. 
Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field. 
Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on, 
^Mammon, the least erected'* Spirit that fell 
From Heaven, for even in Heaven his looks 

and thoughts 680 

Were always downward bent, admiring more 

^ secret ^ its interior ' soldiers who clear the 
way for an army ■* elevated 



The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden 

gold. 
Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed 
In vision beatific. By him first 
Men also, and by his suggestion taught, 685 
Ransacked the Centre, and with impious 

hands 
Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth 
For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew 
Opened into the hill a spacious wound, 
And digged out ribs of gold. Let none ad- 
mire^ 6go 
That riches grow in Hell ; that soil may best 
Deserve the precious bane.^ And here let 

those 
Who boast in mortal things, and wondering 

tell 
Of Babel,^ and the works of Memphian ■• kings, 
Learn how their greatest monuments of fame, 
And strength, and art, are easily outdone 696 
By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour 
What in an age they, with incessant toil 
And hands innumerable, scarce perform. 
Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, 700 
That underneath had veins of liquid fire 
Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude 
With wondrous art founded the massy ore. 
Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion 

dross. 
A third as soon had formed within the ground 
A various mould, and from the boiling cells 706 
By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook : 
As in an organ, from one blast of wind. 
To many a row of pipes the sound-board 

breathes. 
Anon out of the earth a fabric huge 710 

Rose like an exhalation, with the sound 
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet — 
Built like a temple, where pilasters round 
Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid 
With golden architrave ; nor did there want 
Cornice or frieze, \A-ith bossy* sculptures 

graven: 716 

The roof was fretted gold. Not Babylon, 
Nor great Alcairo,'' such magnificence 
Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine 
Belus or Serapis^ their gods, or seat 720 

Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove 
In wealth and luxury. The ascending pile 
Stood fixed her stately highth, and straight 

the doors, 

^ wonder ^ destroj^er ^ the temple of Balus in 
Babylon '' Egyptian * projecting from the walls 
^ Memphis in Egypt ^ gods of Babylon and Egypt 



2o8 



JOHN MILTON 



Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide 
Within, her ample spaces o'er the smooth 725 
And level pavement : from the arched roof, 
Pendent by subtle magic, many a row 
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed 
With naphtha" and asphaltus, yielded light 
As from a sky. The hasty multitude 730 
Admiring entered, and the work some praise. 
And some the archit ect . His hand was known 
In Heaven by many a towered structure high, 
Where sceptred Angels held their residence, 
And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King 
Exalted to such power, and gave to rule, 736 
Each in his Hierarchy, the Orders ^ bright. 
Nor was his name unheard or unadored 
In ancient Greece ; and in Ausonian ^ land 
Men called him Mulciber ; and how he fell 
From Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry 

Jove 741 

Sheer o'er the crystal battlements : from morn 
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, 
A summer's day ; and with the setting sun 
Dropt from the zenith, like a falling star, 745 
On Lemnos, the ^gsean isle. Thus they relate. 
Erring ; for he with this rebellious rout ^ 
Fell long before ; nor aught availed him now 
To have built in Heaven high towers; nor 

did he 'scape 
By all his engines,** but was headlong sent 750 
With his industrious crew to build in Hell. 
Meanwhile the winged heralds, by com- 
mand 
Of sovran power, with awful ceremony 
And trumpet's sound, throughout the host 

proclaim 
A solemn council forthwith to be held 755 
At Pandemonium, the high capital 
Of Satan and his peers. Their summons 

called 
From every band and squared regiment 
By place or choice the worthiest ; they anon 
With hundreds and with thousands trooping 

came 760 

Attended. All access was thronged, the gates 
And porches wide, but chief the spacious hall 
(Though like a covered field, where champions 

bold 
Wont ride in armed, and at the Soldan's * chair 
Defied the best of Paynym chivalry 765 

To mortal combat, or career with lance) 
Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in 

the air, 

^ There were nine orders, or classes, of angels. 
* Italy ^ company * contrivances ^ Sultan's 



Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings. As 

bees 
In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus 

rides,^ 769 

Pour forth their populous youth about the 

hive 
In clusters ; they among fresh dews and 

flowers 
Fly to and fro, or on the smoothed plank. 
The suburb of their straw-built citadel, 
New rubbed with balm, expatiate ^ and confer 
Their state-aifairs. So thick the aery crowd 
Swarmed and were straitened;^ till, the 

signal given, 776 

Behold a wonder ! they but now who seemed 
In bigness to surpass Earth's giant sons, 
Now less than smallest dwarfs, in narrow room 
Throng numberless, like that pygmean race 
Beyond the Indian mount ; ^ or faery elves, 781 
Whose midnight revels, by a forest-side 
Or fountain, some belated peasant sees. 
Or dreams he sees, while overhead the Moon 
Sits arbitress, and nearer to the Earth 785 
Wheels her pale course ; they, on their mirth 

and dance 
Intent, with jocund music charm his ear ; 
At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds. 
Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms 
Reduced their shapes immense, and were at 

large, 79° 

Though without number still, amidst the hall 
Of that infernal court. But far within. 
And in their own dimensions like themselves, 
The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim 
In close recess^ and secret conclave sat, 795 
A thousand demi-gods on golden seats, 
Frequent ^ and full.'' After short silence then, 
And summons read, the great consult began. 

OF EDUCATION 

TO MASTER SAMUEL HARTLIb" 

[An Extract] 

(THEIR EXERCISE) 

The course of study hitherto briefly de- 
scribed, is what I can guess by reading, Hkest 
to those ancient and famous schools of 
Pythagoras, Plato, Isocrates, Aristotle, and 

^ is in the sign of Taurus, cf . Chaucer, Prol. of 
C. T., note on 1. 8 ^ move about ^ gathered close 
together * the Himalaya range ^ secret retirement 
'' numerous ^ complete in number 



OF EDUCATION 



209 



such others, out of which were bred such a 
number of renowned philosophers, orators, 
historians, poets, and princes all over Greece, 
Italy, and Asia, besides the flourishing studies 
of Cyrene and Alexandria. But herein it 
shall exceed them, and supply a defect as 
great as that which Plato noted in the com- 
monwealth of Sparta ; whereas that city 
trained up their youth most for war, and 
these in their academies and Lycaeum all 
for the gown, this institution of breeding 
which I here delineate shall be equally good 
both for peace and war. 

Therefore about an hour and a half ere they 
eat at noon should be allowed them for ex- 
ercise, and due rest afterwards ; but the 
time for this may be enlarged at pleasure, 
according as their rising in the morning shall 
be early. The exercise which I commend 
first, is the exact use of their weapon, to guard, 
and to strike safely with edge or point ; this 
will keep them healthy, nimble, strong, and 
well in breath, is also the likeliest means to 
make them grow large and tall, and to inspire 
them with a gallant and fearless courage, 
which being tempered with seasonable lec- 
tures and precepts to them of true fortitude 
and patience, will turn into a native and heroic 
valour, and make them hate the cowardice of 
doing wrong. They must be also practised 
in all the locks and grips of wrestling, wherein 
Englishmen were wont to excel, as need may 
often be in fight to tug, to grapple, and to 
close. And this perhaps will be enough, 
wherein to prove and heat their single strength. 

The interim of unsweating themselves regu- 
larly, and convenient rest before meat, may 
both with profit and delight be taken up in 
recreating and composing their travailed^ 
spirits with the solemn and divine harmonies 
of music heard or learned ; either whilst the 
skilful organist plies his grave and fancied 
descant - in lofty fugues, or the whole sym- 
phony with artful and unimaginable touches 
adorn and grace the well-studied chords of 
some choice composer ; sometimes the lute or 
soft organ stop waiting on elegant voices, 
eit|^er to religious, martial, or civil ditties ; 
which, if wise men and prophets be not 
extremely out, have a great power over dis- 
positions and manners, to smooth and make 
them gentle from rustic harshness and dis- 
tempered passions. The like also woxold not 

^ wearied - solemn and elaborate variations 



be un expedient after meat, to assist and 
cherish nature in her first concoction,^ and 
send their minds back to study in good tune 
and satisfaction. 

Where having followed it close under vigi- 
lant eyes, till about two hours before supper, 
they are by a sudden alarum or watchword, to 
be called out to their military motions, under 
sky or covert, according to the season, as was 
the Roman wont ; first on foot, then as their 
age permits, on horseback, to all the art of 
cavalry ; that having in sport, but with much 
exactness and daily muster, served out the 
rudiments of their soldiership, in all the skill 
of embattling,^ marching, encamping, fortify- 
ing, besieging, and battering with all the 
helps of ancient and modern stratagems, 
tactics, and warlike maxims, they may as it 
were out of a long war come forth renowned 
and perfect commanders in the service of their 
country. They would not then, if they were 
trusted with fair and hopeful armies, suffer 
them for want of just and wise discipline to 
shed away from about them like sick feathers, 
though they be never so oft supplied; they 
would not suffer their empty and unrecruit- 
able ^ colonels of twenty men in a company, to 
quaff out, or convey into secret hoards, the 
wages of a delusive ^ list, and a miserable rem- 
nant ; yet in the meanwhile to be overmas- 
tered with a score or two of drunkards, the 
only soldiery left about them, or else to com- 
ply with^ all rapines and violences. No, 
certainly, if they knew aught of that knowl- 
edge that belongs to good men or good 
governors, they would not suffer these things. 

But to return to our own institute ; be- 
sides these constant exercises at home, there is 
another opportunity of gaining experience 
to be won from pleasure itself abroad ; in 
those vernal seasons of the year when the air 
is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and 
sullenness against nature, not to go out and 
see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing 
with heaven and earth. I should not there- 
fore be a persuader to them of studying much 
then, after two or three years that thej^ have 
well laid their grounds, but to ride out in 
companies with prudent and staid guides to 
all the quarters of the land ; learning and 
observing all places of strength, all com- 

^ process of digestion ^ drawing up in battle 
array ^ lacking soldiers and incapable of recruit- 
ing ■* false ^ allow 



2IO 



JOHN MILTON 



modities ^ of building and of soil, for towns and 

tillage, harbours and ports for trade. Some- 
times taking sea as far as to our navy, to 
learn there also what they can in the practi- 
cal knowledge of sailing and of seafight. 
These ways woiold try all their peculiar gifts 
of nature, and if there were any secret excel- 
lence among them, would fetch it out, and 
give it fair opportunities to advance itself 
by, which could not but mightily redound to 
the good of this nation, and bring into fashion 
again those old admired virtues and excellen- 
cies with far more advantage now in this 
purity of Christian knowledge. 



From AREOPAGITICA 

A SPEECH FOR THE LIBERTY OF UN- 
LICENSED PRINTING 

To the Parliament of England 

^ * :t: Hi * * :(: 

I deny not but that it is of greatest concern- 
ment in the church and commonwealth, to 
have a vigilant eye how books demean them- 
selves as well as men ; and thereafter to con- 
fine, imprison, and do sharpest justice on 
them as malefactoi"s : for books are not abso- 
lutely dead things, but do contain a potency 
of life in them to be as active as that soul was 
Avhose progeny they are ; nay, they do pre- 
serve as in a vial the purest efficacy and 
extraction of that living mtellect that bred 
them. I know they are as lively, and as 
vigorously productive, as those fabulous 
dragon's teeth ; ^ and being sown up and down, 
may chance to spring up armed men. And 
yet on the other hand, unless wariness be used, 
as good almost kill a man as kill a good book ; 
who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, 
God's image ; but he who destroys a good 
book, kills reason itself, kills the image of 
God as it were in the eye. Many a man lives 
a burden to the earth ; but a good book is the 
precious life-blood of a master spirit, im- 
balmed and treasured up on purpose to a life 
beyond life. 'Tis true, no age can restore a 
life, whereof perhaps there is no great loss ; 
and revolutions of ages do not oft recover the 
loss of a rejected truth, for the want of which 

^ advantages ^ so\7n by Cadmus, cf . Gayley, 
pp. 114-117 



whole nations fare the w^orse. We should be 
wary therefore what persecution we raise 
against the living labours of public men, how 
we spill ^ the seasoned life of man preserved 
and stored up in books ; since we see a kind 
of homicide may be thus committed, some- 
times a martyrdom, and if it extend to the 
whole impression, a kind of massacre, whereof 
the execution ends not in the slaying of an 
elemental life, but strikes at that ethereal and 
fifth essence, the breath of reason itself, slays 
an immortality rather than a life. But lest 
I should be condemned of introducing li- 
cense, while I oppose licensing, I refuse not 
the pains to be so much historical as will 
serve to show what hath been done by 
ancient and famous commonwealths against 
this disorder, till the very time that this 
project of licensing crept out of the inquisi- 
tion, was catched up by our prelates, and 
hath caught some of our presbyters. 



Good and evil we know in the field of this 
world grow up together almost inseparably ; 
and the knowledge of good is so involved and 
interwoven with the knowledge of evil and in 
so many cunning resemblances hardly to be 
discerned, that those confused seeds, which 
were imposed on Psyche- as an incessant 
labour to cull out and sort asunder, were not 
more intermixed. It was from out the rind 
of one apple tasted that the knowledge of 
good and evil as two twins cleaving together 
leaped forth into the world. And perhaps 
this is that doom which Adam fell into of 
knowing good and evil, that is to say of 
knowing good by evil. As therefore the state 
of man now is, w^hat wisdom can there be to 
choose, what continence to forbear, without 
the knowledge of evil? He- that can appre- 
hend and consider vice with all her baits and 
seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet 
distinguish, and yet prefer that which is 
tndy better, he is the true Avarfaring Chris- 
tian. I cannot praise a fugitive and clois- 
tered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed,^ 
that never sallies out and sees her adversary, 
but slinks out of the race, where that immortal 
garland is to be run for not without dust and 
heat. Assuredly we bring not innocence into 
the world, we bring impurity much rather : 

^ destroy - in the temple of \'enus, cf. Gayley, 
p. 156 ^unpractised 



AREOPAGITICA 



211 



that which purifies us is trial, and trial is by 
what is contrary. That virtue therefore 
which is but a youngling in the contemplation 
of evil, and knows not the utmost that vice 
promises to her followers, and rejects it, is 
but a blank virtue, not a pure ; her white- 
ness is but an excremental ^ whiteness ; which 
was the reason why our sage and serious poet 
Spenser, whom I dare be known to think a 
better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas,^ de- 
scribing true temperance under the person of 
Guion, brings him in with his palmer through 
the cave of ]\Iammon and the bower of earthly 
bliss,^ that he might see and know, and yet 
abstain. Since therefore the knowledge and 
survey of vice is in this world so necessary 
to the constituting of human virtue, and the 
scanning of error to the confirmation of truth, 
how can we more safely and with less danger 
scout into the regions of sin and falsity than 
by reading all manner of tractates, and hear- 
ing all manner of reason? And this is the 
benefit which may be had of books promis- 
cuously read. 



If we think to regulate printing, thereby to 
rectify manners, we must regulate all recrea- 
tions and pastimes, all that is delightful to 
man. No music must be heard, nor song be 
set or sung, but what is grave and doric. 
There must be licensing dancers, that no 
gesture, motion, or deportment be taught 
our youth but what by their allowance shall 
be thought honest ; for svich Plato was pro- 
vided of. It will ask more than the work of 
twenty licensers to examine all the lutes, the 
violins and the guitars in every house ; they 
must not be suffered to prattle as they do, 
but must be licensed what they may say. 
And who shall silence all the airs and madri- 
gals that whisper softness in chambers? 
The \\'indows also, and the balconies must be 
thought on ; there are shrewd * books with 
dangerous frontispieces set to sale ; who shall 
prohibit them? shall twenty licensers? The 
villages also must have their visitors to in- 
quire what lectures the bagpipe and the rebec 
reads, even to |he ballatry and the gamut of 
every municipal fiddler, for these are the 

^external ^ Duns Scotus (1265 ?-i3o8 ?) and 
Thomas Aquinas (1225 ?-i274), founders of the 
two chief systems of mediaeval philosophy ' See 
Faerie Queene, II, vii and xii ^ wicked 



countryman's Arcadias and his Montemayors.^ 
Next, what more national corruption, for 
which England hears ill abroad, than house- 
hold gluttony? who shall be the rectors ^ of 
our daily rioting? and what shall be done to 
inhibit the multitudes that frequent those 
houses where drunkenness is sold and har- 
boured? Our garments also should be 
referred to the licensing of some more sober 
work-masters to see them cut into a less wan- 
ton garb. Who shall regulate all the mixed 
conversation of our youth male and female 
together, as is the fashion of this country? 
who shall still ^ appoint what shall be dis- 
coursed, what presumed, and no further? 
Lastly, who shall forbid and separate all idle 
resort, all evil company? These things will 
be, and must be ; but how they shall be least 
hurtful, how least enticing, herein consists 
the grave and governing wisdom of a state. 
To sequester out of the world into Atlantic 
and Utopian ^ polities, which never can be 
drawn into use, will not mend our condition ; 
but to ordain wisely as in this world of evil, 
in the midst whereof God hath placed us un- 
avoidably. Nor is it Plato's licensing of 
books will do this, which necessarily pulls 
along with it so many other kinds of licensing, 
as will make us all both ridiculous and weary, 
and yet frustrate ; but those unwritten, or 
at least unconstraining laws of virtuous edu- 
cation, religious and civil nurture, which 
Plato there mentions as the bonds and liga- 
ments of the commonwealth, the pillars and 
the sustainers of every written statute ; these 
they be which will bear chief sway in such 
matters as these, when all licensing will be easily 
eluded. Impunity and remissness, for certain, 
are the bane of a commonwealth ; but here the 
great art lies to discern in what the law is to 
bid restraint and punishment, and in what 
things persuasion only is to work. If every ac- 
tion which is good, or evil in man at ripe years, 
were to be under pittance^ and prescription 
and compulsion, what were virtue but a name, 
what praise could be then due to weU-doing, 
what gramercy ^ to be sober, just or continent ? 



^ The Diana Enamorada of Jorge de Monte- 
mayor, published in 1542, was one oflhc most famous 
pastoral romances. ^ controllers 'constantly ^ At- 
lantis and Utopia were imaginary ideal common- 
wealths described by Plato and Sir Thomas More. 
^ allowance ® thanks 



212 



JOHN MILTON 



Lords and Commons of England, consider 
what nation it is whereof ye are the governors : 
a nation not slow and dull, but of a quick, 
ingenious, and piercing spirit, acute to invent, 
subtle and sinewy to discourse, not beneath 
the reach of any point the highest that human 
capacity can soar to. Therefore the studies 
of learning in her deepest sciences have been 
so ancient and so eminent among us, that 
writers of good antiquity and ablest judgment 
have been persuaded that even the school of 
Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom ^ took be- 
ginning from the old philosophy of this island. 
And that wise and civil Roman, JuhusAgric- 
ola, who governed once here for Ceesar, pre- 
ferred the natural wits of Britain before the 
laboured studies of the French. Nor is it 
for nothing that the grave and frugal Transyl- 
vanian sends out yearly from as far as the 
mountainous borders of Russia and beyond 
the Hercynian wilderness,^ not their youth, 
but their staid men, to learn our language and 
our theologic arts. Yet that which is above 
all this, the favour and the love of heaven, we 
have great argument to think in a peculiar 
manner propitious and propending towards 
us. Why else was this nation chosen before 
any other, that out of her as out of Sion should 
be proclaimed and sounded forth the first 
tidings and trumpet of reformation to all 
Europe? And had it not been the obstinate 
perverseness of our prelates against the divine 
and admirable spirit of Wiclif, to suppress 
him as a schismatic and innovator, perhaps 
neither the Bohemian Huss and Jerome,^ no, 
nor the name of Luther or of Calvin had been 
ever known ; the glory of reforming all our 
neighbours had been completely ours. But 
now, as our obdurate clergy have with vio- 
lence demeaned ^ the matter, we are become 
hitherto the latest and the backwardest 
scholars, of whom God offered to have made 
us the teachers. 

Now once again by all concurrence of signs 
and by the general instinct of holy and devout 
men, as they daily and solemnly express their 
thoughts, God is decreeing to begin some new 
and great period in his church, even to the re- 
forming of reformation itself. What does he 
then but reveal himself to his servants, and as 
his manner is, first to his Englishmen ; I say 

^ the religion of Zoroaster ^ the wooded moun- 
tains of central Germany ^ Jerome of Prague, a 
religious reformer associated with Huss * conducted 



as his manner is, first to us, though we mark 
not the method of his counsels and are un- 
worthy? Behold now this vast city: ^ a city 
of refuge, the mansion house of liberty, en- 
compassed and surrounded with his protec- 
tion ; the shop of war hath not there more an- 
vils and hammers waking, to fashion out the 
plates and instruments of armed justice in 
defence of beleaguered truth, than there be 
pens and heads there, sitting by their studious 
lamps, musing, searching, revolving new no- 
tions and ideas wherewith to present as with 
their homage and their fealty the approaching 
reformation, others as fast reading, trying all 
things, assenting to the force of reason and 
convincement. What could a man require 
more from a nation so pliant and so prone to 
seek after knowledge? What wants there to 
such a towardly and pregnant ^ soil but wise 
and faithful labourers, to make a knowing 
people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of 
worthies ? We reckon more than five months 
yet to harvest ; there need not be five weeks ; 
had we but eyes to lift up, the fields are white 
alreadJ^^ 



Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puis- 
sant nation rousing herself like a strong man 
after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks. 
Methinks I see her as an eagle muing ^ her 
mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled 
eyes at the full midday beam, purging and 
unsealing her long abused sight at the foun- 
tain itself of heavenly radiance, while the 
whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, 
with those also that love the twilight, flutter 
about, amazed at what she means, and in 
their envious gabble would prognosticate a 
year of sects and schisms. 

What should ye do then, should ye suppress 
all this flowery crop of knowledge and new 
light sprung up and yet springing daily in this 
city, should ye set an oligarchy of twenty in- 
grossers ^ over it, to bring a famine upon our 
minds again, when we shall know nothing but 
what is measured to us by their bushel? Be- 
lieve it, Lords and Commons, they who coun- 
sel ye to such a suppressing do as good as bid 
ye suppress yourselves ; and I will soon show 
how. If it be desired to know the immediate 

^ London ^ productive ^ cf. St. John iv : 35 
^ renewing (by moulting) ^ merchants who corner 
necessaries 



AREOPAGITICA 



213 



cause of all this free writing and free speaking, 
there cannot be assigned a truer than your own 
mild and free and humane government ; it is 
the liberty, Lords and Commons, which your 
own valorous and happy counsels have pur- 
chased us, liberty which is the nurse of all 
great wits ; ^ this is that which hath rarefied 
and enlightened our spirits like the influence 
of heaven ; this is that which hath enfran- 
chised, enlarged and lifted up our apprehen- 
sions degrees above themselves. Ye cannot 
make us now less capable, less knowing, less 
eagerly pursuing of the truth, unless ye first 
make yourselves, that made us so, less the 
lovers, less the founders of our true liberty. 
We can grow ignorant again, brutish, formal, 
and slavish, as ye found us ; but you then 
must first become that which ye cannot be, 
oppressive, arbitrary, and tyrannous, as they 
were from whom ye have freed us. That our 
hearts are now more capacious, our thoughts 
more erected to the search and expectation of 
greatest and exactest things, is the issue of 
your own virtue propagated in us ; ye cannot 
suppress that unless ye reinforce an abrogated 
and merciless law, that fathers may despatch 
at will their own children. And who shall 
then stick closest to ye, and excite others? 
Not he who takes up arms for coat and con- 
duct and his four nobles of Danegelt.^ Al- 
though I dispraise not the defence of just 
immunities, yet love my peace better, if that 
were all. Give me the liberty to know, to 
utter, and to argue freely according to con- 
science, above all liberties. 

What would be best advised, then, if it be 
found so hurtful and so unequal ^ to suppress 
opinions for the newness or the unsuitableness 
to a customary acceptance, will not be my 
task to say ; I only shall repeat what I have 
learned from one of your own honourable 
number, a right noble and pious lord, who had 
he not sacrificed his life and fortunes to the 
church and commonwealth, we had not now 
missed and bewailed a worthy and undoubted 
patron of this argument. Ye know him I 
am sure ; yet I for honour's sake (and may it 
be eternal to him !) shall name him, the Lord 
Brook. He writing of episcopacy, and by the 
way treating of sects and schisms, left ye his 
vote, or rather now the last words of his dy- 
ing charge, which I know will ever be of dear 

^ intelligences ^ A tax levied for defence against 
the Danes. ^ unjust 



and honoured regard with ye, so full of meek- 
ness and breathing charity, that next to His 
last testament, Who bequeathed love and 
peace to His disciples, I cannot call to mind 
where I have read or heard words more mild 
and peaceful. He there exhorts us to hear 
with patience and humility those, however 
they be miscalled, that desire to live purely, 
in such a use of God's ordinances, as the best 
guidance of their conscience gives them, and 
to tolerate them, though in some disconform- 
ity to ourselves. The book itself will tell us 
more at large being published to the world 
and dedicated to the parliament by him who, 
both for his life and for his death, deserves 
that what advice he left be not laid by 
without perusal. 

And now the time in special is by privilege 
to write and speak what may help to the 
further discussing of matters in agitation. 
The temple of Janus with his two controver- 
sal ^ faces might now not unsignificantly be 
set open.2 And though all the winds of doc- 
trine were let loose to play upon the earth, 
so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously 
by licensing and prohibiting to misdoubt her 
strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple ; 
who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a 
free and open encoimter? Her confuting is 
the best and surest suppressing. He who 
hears what praying there is for light and 
clearer knowledge to be sent down among 
us, would think of other matters to be consti- 
tuted beyond the discipUne of Geneva, framed 
and fabricked already to our hands. Yet 
when the new light which we beg for shines in 
upon us, there be who envy and oppose, if it 
come not first in at their casements. What 
a coUusion is this, whenas we are exhorted 
by the wiseman to use diligence, to seek J or 
•wisdom as for hidden treasures early and late, 
that another order shall enjoin us to know 
nothing but by statute ! When a man hath 
been labouring the hardest labour in the deep 
mines of knowledge, hath furnished out his 
findings in all their equipage, drawn forth his 
reasons as it were a battle ^ ranged, scattered 
and defeated all objections in his way, calls 
out his adversary into the plain, offers him 
the advantage of wind and svm, if he please, 
only that he may try the matter by dint of 
argument, for his opponents then to skulk, to 

^ turned opposite ways ^ His temple at Rome 
was kept open in time of war. ' battalion 



214 



RICHARD CRASHAW 



lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of 
licensing where the challenger should pass, 
though it be valour enough in soldiership, is 
but weakness and cowardice in the wars of 
Truth. For who knows not that Truth is 
strong next to the Almighty? She needs no 
policies, no stratagems, nor licensings to make 
her victorious ; those are the shifts and the 
defences that Error uses against her power. 
Give her but room, and do not bind her when 
she sleeps, for then she speaks not true, as 
the old Proteus did, who spake oracles only 
when he was caught and bound ; ^ but then 
rather she turns herself into all shapes except 
her own, and perhaps tunes her voice accord- 
ing to the time, as Micaiah did before Ahab,^ 
until she be adjured into her own Ukeness. 

SIR JOHN SUCKLING 

(1609-1642) 

THE CONSTANT LOVER 

Out upon it, I have loved 
Three whole days together ! 

And am like to love three more, 

If it prove fair weather. 4 

Time shall moult away his wings 

Ere he shaU discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 8 

But the spite on't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me : 
Love with me had made no stays, 

Had it any been but she. 1 2 

Had it any been but she. 

And that very face, 
There had been at least ere this 

A dozen dozen in her place. 16 

WHY SO PALE AND WAN? 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her. 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prithee, why so pale? S 

^ See the story told by Menelaus in the Odyssey, 
Bk. iv - cf. I Kings xxii : 15-16 



Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Prithee, why so mute? 
WiU, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do 't ? 

Prithee, why so mute? 10 

Quit, quit for shame ! This will not move ; 

This cannot take her. 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her : 

The devO. take her ! 15 

RICHARD CRASHAW 

(i6i3?-i649) 

IN THE HOLY NATIVITY OF OUR 

LORD GOD 
A HYMN SUNG AS BY THE SHEPHERDS 

Chorus 

Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight 
Hath met Love's noon in Nature's night ; 
Come, lift we up our loftier song 
And wake the sun that lies too long. 

To all our world of well-stol'n joy 
He slept, and dreamt of no such thing ; 

While we found out heaven's fairer eye 
And kissed the cradle of our King. 

Tell him he rises now, too late 
To show us aught worth looking at. 10 

Tell him we now can show him more 
Than he e'er showed to mortal sight ; 

Than he himself e'er saw before ; 
Which to be seen needs not his light. 

Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been 
TeU him, Thyrsis, what th' hast seen. 

Tityrus. Gloomy night embraced the place 
Where the noble Infant lay. 

The Babe looked up and showed 

His face ; 

In spite of darkness, it was day. 20 

It was Thy day, Sweet ! and did rise 

Not from the east, but from Thine 

eyes. 

Chorus. It was Thy day. Sweet . . . 

Thyrsis. Winter chid aloud ; and sent 

The angry North to wage his wars. 
The North forgot his fierce intent ; 



IN THE HOLY NATIVITY OF OUR LORD GOD 



215 



And left perfumes instead of scars. 
By those sweet eyes' persuasive 

powers, 
Where he meant frost he scattered 

flowers. 



Cho. By those sweet eyes 



30 



Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, 
Young Dawn of our Eternal Day ! 
We saw Thine eyes break from their 
east 
And chase the trembling shades away. 
We saw Thee, and we blest the 
sight. 
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet 
Ught. 

Tit. Poor World, said I, what wilt thou 

do 
To entertain this starry Stranger? 

Is this the best thou canst bestow? 
A cold and not too cleanly, manger? 
Contend, the powers of heaven and 
earth, 41 

To fit a bed for this huge birth ! 

Cho. Contend the powers . . . 

Thyr. Proud world, said I ; cease your 
contest 
And let the mighty Babe alone ; 
The phoenix buUds the phoenix' 
nest. 
Love's architecture is his own ; 

The Babe whose birth embraves^ 
this morn, 
Made His own bed e'er He was 
born. 



Cho. The Babe whose 



so 



Tit. I saw the curl'd drops, soft and 

slow. 
Come hovering o'er the place's head; 
Ofl'ring their wliitest sheets of 
snow 
To furnish the fair Infant's bed. 

Forbear, said I ; be not too bold ; 
Your fleece is white, but 'tis too 
cold. 

Cho. Forbear, said I . . . 



Thyr. I saw the obsequious seraphim 
Their rosy fleece ^ of fire bestow, 
For well they now can spare their 
wings 60 

Since Heaven itself lies here below. 

Well done, said I ; but are you sure 
Your down so warm, will pass for 
pure? 

Cho. Well done, said I . . . 

Tit. No, no, your King's not yet to seek 

Where to repose His royal head ; 
See, see how soon His new-bloomed 
cheek 
'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to 
bed! 
Sweet choice, said we ! no way but so 
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow. 70 

Cho. Sweet choice, said we . . . 

Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, 
Bright Dawn of our Eternal Day ! 
We saw Thine eyes break from their 
east 
And chase the trembling shades away. 
We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, 
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet 
Light. 

Cho. We saw Thee . . . 



Full Chorus 

Welcome, all wonders in one night ! 
Eternity shut in a span, 80 

Summer in winter, day in night. 
Heaven in earth, and God in man. 
Great Little One ! Whose all-em- 
bracing birth 
Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven 
to earth. 

Welcome — though nor to gold nor 
silk, 
To more than Caesar's birthright is; 

Two sister-seas of virgin-milk 
With many a rarely-tempered kiss 
That breathes at once both maid 
and mother, 89 

Warms in the one, cools in the other. 



makes illustrious 



^ not of wool, but of feathers from their wings 



2l6 



JEREMY TAYLOR 



Welcome — though not to those 
gay flies ^ 
Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, 

Slippery souls in smUing eyes — 
But to poor shepherds, homespun 
things. 
Whose wealth's their flock, whose 
wit's to be 
Well read in their simplicity. 

Yet, when young April's husband 
show'rs 
Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, 
We'll bring the first-born of her 
flow'rs 
To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. 
To Thee, dread Lamb ! Whose love 
must keep loi 

The Shepherds, more than they the 
sheep. 

To Thee, meek Majesty ! soft King 
Of simple graces and sweet loves ! 
Each of us his lamb wfll bring, 
Each his pair of silver doves ! 

Tni burnt at last in fire of Thy fair 
eyes. 
Ourselves become our own best sacri- 
fice ! 

JEREMY TAYLOR (1613-1667) 

THE RULE AND EXERCISES OF HOLY 
DYING 

CHAP. I. — A GENERAL PREPARATION 
TOWARDS A HOLY AND BLESSED 
DEATH, BY WAY OF CONSIDERATION 

From Section II. — [Of the Vanity and 
Shortness oe Man's Liee] : The Con- 
sideration REDUCED to PRACTICE 

It will be very material to our best and 
noblest purposes, if we represent this scene of 
change and sorrow, a little more dressed up 
in circumstances ; for so we shall be more apt 
to practise those rules the doctrine of which 
is consequent to this consideration. It is a 
mighty change, that is made by the death of 
every person, and it is visible to us, who are 
alive. Reckon but from the sprightfulness of 

^ i.e., courtiers 



youth, and the fair cheeks and full eyes of 
childhood, from the vigorousness and strong 
flexure of the joints of five-and-twenty, to the 
hollo wness and dead paleness, to the loath- 
someness and horror of a three day's burial, 
and we shall perceive the distance to be very 
great and very strange. But so have I seen 
a rose newly springing from the clefts of its 
hood, and, at first, it was fair as the morning, 
and full with the dew of heaven, as a lamb's 
fleece ; but when a ruder breath had forced 
open its virgin modesty, and dismantled its 
too youthful and unripe retirements, it began 
to put on darkness, and to decline to softness 
and the symptoms of a sickly age ; it bowed 
the head, and broke its stalk, and, at night, 
having lost some of its leaves and all its 
beauty, it fell into the portion of weeds and 
outworn faces. The same is the portion of 
every man and every woman ; the heritage 
of worms and serpents, rottenness and cold 
dishonour, and our beauty so changed, that 
our acquaintance quickly knew us not ; and 
that change mingled with so much horror or 
else meets so with our fears and weak dis- 
coursings, that they who, six hours ago, tended 
upon us, either with charitable or ambitious 
services, cannot, without some regret, stay in 
the room alone, where the body lies stripped 
of its life and honour. I have read of a fair 
yoimg German gentleman, who, living, often 
refused to be pictured, but put off the impor- 
tunity of his friends' desire, by giving way, 
that, after a few days' burial, they might send 
a painter to his vault, and, if they saw cause 
for it, draw the image of his death unto the 
life. They did so, and found his face half 
eaten, and his midriff and backbone full of 
serpents ; and so he stands pictured among his 
armed ancestors. So does the fairest beauty 
change, and it will be as bad with you and 
me ; and then, what servants shall we have 
to wait upon us in the grave ? what friends to 
visit us ? what officious people to cleanse away 
the moist and imwholesome cloud reflected 
upon our faces from the sides of the weeping 
vaults, which are the longest weepers for our 
funeral ? 

This discourse will be useful, if we consider 
and practise by the foUomng rules and 
considerations respectively. 

I. All the rich and all the covetous men in 
the world will perceive, and all the Avorld will 
perceive for them, that it is but an ill recom- 
pense for all their cares, that, by this time, all 



THE RULE AND EXERCISES OF HOLY DYING 



217 



that shall be left, will be this, that the neigh- 
bours shall say, "He died a rich man;" and 
yet his wealth will not profit him in the 
grave, but hugely sweU the sad accoimts of 
doomsday. And he that kills the Lord's 
people with unjust or ambitious wars for an 
unrewarding interest, shall have this char- 
acter, that he threw away all the days of his 
hfe, that one year might be reckoned with his 
name, and computed by his reign or consul- 
ship ; and many men, by great labours and 
affronts, many indignities and crimes, labour 
only for a pompous epitaph, and a loud title 
upon their marble ; whilst those, into whose 
possessions their heirs or kmdred are entered, 
are forgotten, and lie unregarded as their 
ashes, and without concernment or relation, 
as the turf upon the face of their grave. A 
man may read a sermon, the best and most 
passionate that ever man preached, if he shall 
but enter into the sepulchres of kings. In the 
same Escurial,^ where the Spanish princes live 
in greatness and power, and decree war or 
peace, they have wisely placed a cemetery, 
where their ashes and their glory shall sleep 
tiU time shall be no more ; and where our kings 
have been crowned, their ancestors lie in- 
terred, and they must walk over their grand- 
sire's head to take his crown. There is an 
acre sown, with royal seed, the copy of the 
greatest change, from rich to naked, from 
ceUed roofs to arched coffins, from living like 
gods to die like men. There is enough to cool 
the flames of lust, to abate the heights of pride, 
to appease the itch of covetous desires, to 
sully and dash out the dissemblmg colours of 
a lustful, artificial, and imaginary beauty. 
There the warlike and the peaceful, the fortu- 
nate and the miserable, the beloved and the 
despised princes mingle their dust, and pay 
down their symbol of mortality, and tell all 
the world, that, when we die, our ashes shall 
be equal to kings', and our accounts easier, 
and our pains or our crowns shall be less. To 
my apprehension it is a sad record, which is 
left by Athenaeus ^ concerning Ninus, the great 
Assyrian monarch, whose life and death are 
summed up in these words : " Ninus, the Assyr- 
ian, had an ocean of gold, and other riches 
more than the sand in the Caspian Sea ; he 

^ a famous building near Madrid, consisting 
of a monastery, a church, a palace, and a mauso- 
leum of the Kings of Spain ^ a gossipy Greek 
writer of the second centiuy after Christ 



never saw the stars, and perhaps he never 
desired it ; he never stirred up the holy fire 
among the Magi, "nor touched his god with the 
sacred rod according to the laws; he never 
offered sacrifice, nor worshipped the deity, 
nor administered justice, nor spake to his 
people, nor numbered them ; but he was most 
valiant to eat and drink, and, having mingled 
his wines, he threw the rest upon the stones. 
This man is dead : behold his sepulchre ; and 
now hear where Ninus is. Sometimes I was 
Ninus, and drew the breath of a living man ; 
but now am nothing but clay. I have noth- 
ing, but what I did eat, and what I served to 
myself in lust, that was and is all my portion. 
The wealth with which I was esteemed blessed, 
my enemies, meeting together, shall bear 
away, as the mad Thyades ^ carry a raw goat. 
I am gone to hell ; and when I went thither, I 
neither carried gold, nor horse, nor sUver 
chariot. I that wore a mitre, ^ am now a little 
heap of dust." I know not anything, that 
can better represent the evil condition of a 
wicked man, or a changing greatness. From 
the greatest secular dignity to dust and ashes 
his nature bears him, and from thence to hell 
his sins carry him, and there he shall be for- 
ever under the dominion of chams and devils, 
wrath and an intolerable calamity. This is 
the reward of an unsanctified condition, and 
a greatness ill gotten or ill administered. 

2. Let no man extend his thoughts, or let 
his hopes wander towards fviture and far- 
distant events and accidental contingencies. 
This day is mine and yours, but ye know not 
what shall be on the morrow; and every 
morning creeps out of a dark cloud, leaving 
behind it an ignorance and silence deep as 
midnight, and undiscerned as are the phan- 
tasms that make a chrisom-child ^ to smUe: 
so that we cannot discern what comes here- 
after, unless we had a light from heaven 
brighter than the vision of an angel, even the 
spirit of prophecy. Without revelation, we 
cannot teU, whether we shall eat to-morrow, 
or whether a squinancy "• shall choke us : and 
it is written in the unrevealed folds of Divine 
predestination, that many, who are this day 
alive, shall to-morrow be laid upon the cold 
earth, and the women shall weep over their 
shroud, and dress them for their funeral. 



^worshippers of Bacchus ^ i.e., crown ^ newly 
christened child ^ quinsy 



2l8 



DENHAM AND LOVELACE 



SIR JOHN DENHAM (1615-1669) RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658) 



From COOPER'S HILL 

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys 
Where Thames amongst the wanton valleys 

strays ; 60 

Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's 

sons, 
By his old sire to his embraces runs, 
Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, 
Like mortal life to meet eternity ; 
Though with those streams he no resemblance 

hold. 
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold, 
His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore, 
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore, 
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious 

wing. 
And hatches plenty for th' ensuuig spring ; 70 
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, 
Like mothers which their infants overlay, 
Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave. 
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he 

gave; 
No imexpected inundations spoil 
The mower's hopes, nor mock the plough- 
man's toil. 
But godlike his unwearied bounty flows. 
First loves to do, then loves the good he 

does ; 
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, 
But free and common as the sea or wind ; 80 
When he to boast or to disperse his stores, 
FuU of the tributes of his grateful shores. 
Visits the world, and in his flying towers, ^ 
Brings home to us, and makes both Indies 

ours. 
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it 

wants. 
Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants ; 
So that to us no thing, no place is strange, 
WTiile his fair bosom is the world's exchange. 
O could I flow like thee, and make thy 

stream 
My great example, as it is my theme ! 90 

Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not 

dull, 
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. 

^ ships 



TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS 

Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind. 
That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 
To war and arms I fly. 4 

' True, a new mistress now I chase, 
The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 8 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As thou too shalt adore ; 
I could not love thee. Dear, so much, 

Loved I not Honour more. 12 



From THE GRASSHOPPER 

O Thou that swing'st upon the waving hair 

Of some well-filled oaten beard. 
Drunk every night with a delicious tear 

Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert 
rear'd. 4 

The joys of earth and air are thine entire. 
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and 
fly; 

And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire 
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 8 

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st 
then, 

Sport 'st in the gilt plaits of his beams, 
And all these merry days mak'st merry, men, 

Thyself, and melancholy streams. 12 

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON 

When Love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fetter'd to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 8 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 
With no allaying Thames,^ 

^ diluting water 



COWLEY AND MARVELL 



219 



Our careless heads with roses bound, 
Our hearts with loyal flames ; 

When thirsty grief in -wine we steep, 
WTien healths and draughts go free — 

Fishes that tipple in the deep 



Know no such liberty. 



Wlien, like committed ^ linnets, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my King ; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be. 
Enlarged winds, that cvirl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 24 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage ; 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free. 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 32 

ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1667) 

THE WISH 

Well then ! I now do plainly see 
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. 
The very honey of all earthly joy 
Does of all meats the soonest cloy ; 

xA.nd they, methinks, deserve my pity 
Who for it can endure the stings, 
The crowd and buzz and murmurings, 

Of this great hive, the city. 8 

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave 

May I a small house and large garden have ; 

And a few friends, and many books, both 

'true. 
Both wise, and both delightful too ! 

And since love ne'er will from me flee, 
A IMistress moderately fair, 
And good as guardian angels are. 

Only beloved and loving me. t6 

O fountains ! when in )'ou shall I 
Mj'self eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy ? 
O fields ! woods ! when, when shall I be 
made 

^ caged 



The happy tenant of your shade ? 

Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's 

' flood: 
Here's wealthy Nature's treasury. 
Where all the riches lie that she 



vvnere aii me ricnes ne tnat sne 
16 Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 



24 



Pride and ambition here 

Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear ; 

Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs 

scatter, 
And nought but Echo flatter. 

The gods, when they descended, hither 
From heaven did always choose their way : 
And therefore we may boldly say 

That 'tis the way too thither. 32 

How happy here should I 
And one dear She Uve, and embracing die ! 
She who is all the world, and can exclude 
In deserts solitude. 

I should have then this only fear : 
Lest men, when they my pleasures see, 
Should hither throng to live like me, 

And so make a city here. 40 

ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678) 

THE GARDEN 

How vainly men themselves amaze, 

To win the palm, the oak, or bays, 

And their incessant labours see 

Crowned from some single herb or tree 

Whose short and narrow-verged shade 

Does prudently their toils upbraid. 

While all the flowers and trees do close 

To weave the garlands of repose ! 8 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 

And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 

Mistaken long, I sought you then 

In busy companies of men. 

Your sacred plants, if here below, 

Only among the plants wfll grow ; 

Society is aU but rude 

To this delicious solitude. 16 

No white nor red was ever seen 
So amorous as this lovely green. 
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 
Little, alas ! they know or heed, 
How far these beauties hers exceed ! 



220 



ANDREW MARVELL 



Fair trees ! wheres'e'er your barks I woiind 
No name shall but your own be found. 24 



When we have run our passion's heat, 
Love hither makes his best retreat. 
The gods, that mortal beauty chase, 
Still in a tree did end their race ; 
Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
Only that she might laurel grow ; 
And Pan did after Syrinx speed. 
Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 



32 



What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drop about my head ; 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
The nectarine, and curious ^ peach. 
Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 

MeanwhUe the mind, from pleasure less, 
Withdraws into its happiness ; — 
The mind, that ocean where each kind 
Does straight its own resemblance find ; • 
Yet it creates, transcending these. 
Far other worlds, and other seas. 
Annihilating all that's made 
To a green thought in a green shade. 

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 
Casting the body's vest aside. 
My soul into the boughs does glide : 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then whets and combs its silver wings, 
And, tm prepared for longer flight, 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 



40 



56 



Such was that happy garden-state, 

While man there walked without a mate. 

After a place so pure and sweet, 

What other help could yet be meet ! 

But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 

To wander solitary there : 

Two paradises 'twere in one, 

To live in paradise alone. 64 

How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial ^ new ; 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run. 
And, as it works, the industrious bee 

^ rare, exotic ^ a bed of various flowers which, 
opening at successive hours, indicate the time of 
day 



Computes its time as well as we ! 

How could such sweet and wholesome hours 

Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ? 72 

TO HIS COY MISTRESS 

Had we but world enough, and time. 

This coyness. Lady, were no crime. 

We would sit down and think which way 

To walk and pass our long love's day. 

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side 

Should'fet rubies find ; I by the tide 

Of Humber would complain. I wordd 

Love you ten years before the Flood, 

And you should, if you please, refuse 

Till the conversion of the Jews. 10 

My vegetable love should grow 

Vaster than empires, and more slow ; 

An hundred years shovdd go to praise 

Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze ; 

Two hundred to adore each breast, 

But thirty thousand to the rest ; 

An age at least to every part, 

And the last age should show your heart. 

For, Lady, you deserve this state. 

Nor would I love at lower rate. 20 

But at my back I always hear 
Time's winged chariot hurrying near ; 
And yonder all before us he 
Deserts of vast eternity. 
Thy beauty shall no more be found. 
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall somid 
My echoing song ; then worms shall try 
That long preserved virginity, 
And your quaint honour turn to dust. 
And into ashes all my lust : 30 

The grave's a fine and private place, 
But none, I think, do there embrace. 

Now therefore, while the youthful hue 
Sits on thy skin like morning dew. 
And while thy willing soul transpires 
At every pore with instant fires, 
Now let us sport us while we may, 
And now, like amorous birds of prey, 
Rather at once our time devour 
Than languish in his slow-chapt ^ power. 40 
Let us roll all our strength and all 
Our sweetness up into one ball. 
And tear our pleasures with rough strife 
Thorough ^ the iron gates of life : 
Thus, though we cannot make our sim 
Stand still, yet we will make him run. 

^ Time is represented as having jaws {chaps) 
that move slowly. ^ through 



HENRY VAUGHAN 



221 



HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695) 
THE RETREAT 

Happy those early days, when I 

Shined in my angel-infancy ! 

Before I understood this place 

Appointed for my second race, 

Or taught my soul to fancy ought 

But a white, celestial thought ; 

When yet I had not walked above 

A mUe or two from my first love, 

And looking back — at that short space — 

Could see a glimpse of His bright face ; 10 

When on some gilded cloud or flower 

My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 

And in those weaker glories spy 

Some shadows of eternity ; 

Before I taught my tongue to woimd 

My conscience with a sinfvQ sound, 

Or had the black art to dispense, 

A several sin to every sense, 

But felt through all this fleshly dress 

Bright shoots of everlastingness. 20 

O how I long to travel back. 
And tread again that ancient track ! 
That I might once more reach that plain, 
Where first I left my glorious train ; 
From whence the enlightened spirit sees 
That shady city of palm trees. 
But ah ! my soul with too much stay 
Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! 
Some men a forward motion love. 
But I by backward steps would move ; 30 
And when this dust falls to the urn, 
In that state I came, return. 



From THE WORLD 

I saw Eternity the other night, 

Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 

All calm, as it was bright ; 



And round beneath it Time in hours, days, 
years, 4 

Driven by the spheres 
Like a vast shadow moved ; in which the 
world 
And all her train were hurled. 

THE TIMBER 

Sure thou didst flourish once ; and many 
springs, 
Many bright mornings, much dew, many 
showers, 
Pass'd o'er thy head ; many light hearts and 
wings. 
Which now are dead, lodged in thy living 
bowers. 4 

And still a new succession sings and flies ; 

Fresh groves grow up, and their green 
branches shoot 
Towards the old and still enduring skies, 7 

While the low violet thrives at their root. 

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line 

Of death dost waste, all senseless, cold, and 

dark; 

Where not so much as dreams of light may 

shine, 11 

Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. 

And yet — as if some deep hate and dissent, 

Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and 

thee. 

Were still alive — thou dost great storms resent 

Before they come, and know'st how near 

they be. 16 

Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath 
Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease ; 

But this thy strange resentment after death 
Means only those who broke in life thy 
peace. 20 



THE RESTORATION 



JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700) 

From STANZAS ON OLIVER CROM- 
WELL 

And now 'tis time ; for their officious haste 
Who would before have borne him to the 
sky, 

Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past, 
Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly. 4 

Though our best notes are treason to his fame 
Joined with the loud applause of public 
voice, 

Since Heaven what praise we offer to his name 
Hath rendered too authentic by its choice ; 8 

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be. 
Since they, whose Muses have the highest 
flown, 

Add not to his immortal memory. 

But do an act of friendship to their own ; 1 2 

Yet 'tis our duty and our interest too 

Such monuments as we can buUd to raise, 

Lest all the world prevent ^ what we should do. 
And claim a title in him by their praise, 16 

How shall I then begin or where conclude 
To draw a fame so truly circular ? 

For in a round what order can be shewed, 
Where all the parts so equal-perfect are ? 20 

His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone. 
For he was great, ere Fortune made him so ; 

And wars, like mists that rise against the sun. 

Made him but greater seem, not greater 

grow. 24 

No borrowed bays his temples did adorn, 
But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring ; 

Nor was his virtue poisoned, soon as born. 
With the too early thoughts of being king. 28 

^ anticipate 



From ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL 



Of these the false AchitopheP was first, 150 

A name to all succeeding ages curst : 

For close ^ designs and crooked counsels fit, 

Sagacious, bold, and turbiilent of wit,^ 

Restless, unfixed in principles and place, 

In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace : 155 

A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 

Fretted the pigmy body to decay 

And o'er-informed "* the tenement of clay. 

A daring pilot in extremity. 

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went 

high. 
He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit, 
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his 

wit. 162 

Great wits are sure to madness near allied 
And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; 
Else, wh^T^ should he, with wealth and honour 

blest, 
Refuse his age the needful hours of rest ? 166 
Punish a body which he could not please, 
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ? 
And all to leave what with his toil he won 
To that unf eathered two-legg'd thing, a son. 1 70 



A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed 
Of the true old enthusiastic breed : 530 

'Gainst form and order they their power em- 
ploy. 
Nothing to build and all things to destroy. 
But far more numerous was the herd of such 
Who think too little and who talk too much. 
These out of mere instinct, they knew not 

why. 
Adored their fathers' God and property, 536 
And by the same blind benefit of Fate 
The Devil and the Jebusite ^ did hate : 
Born to be saved even in their own despite. 
Because they could not help believing right. 540 

^ the Earl of Shaftesbury - secret ^ intellect 
^ overfilled * their enemies, the Catholics 



THE HIND AND THE PANTHER 



223 



Such were the tools ; but a whole Hydra ^ more 
Remains of sprouting heads too long to score. 
Some of their chiefs were princes of the land ; 
In the first rank of these did Zimri ^ stand, 
A man so various that he seemed to be 545 
Not one, but all mankind's epitome : 
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, 
Was everything by starts and nothing long ; 
But in the course of one revolving moon 
Was chymist,^ fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; 
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drink- 
ing, _ 55 1 
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in think- 
ing. 
Blest madman, who could every hour employ 
With something new to wish or to enjoy ! 
Raihng and praising were his usual themes,555 
And both, to show his judgment, in extremes : 
So over violent or over civil 
That every man with him was God or DevU. 
In squandering wealth was his pecuUar art ; 
Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 560 
Beggared by fools whom still he found ^ too 

late, 
He had his jest, and they had his estate. 
He laughed himself from Court ; then sought 

relief 
By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief : 
For spite of him, the weight of business fell 565 
On Absalom and wise Achitophel ; 
Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft, 
He left not faction, but of that was left. 



From THE HIND AND THE PANTHERS 

A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged, 
Fed on the lawns and in the forest ranged ; 
Without imspotted, innocent within, 
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin. 
Yet had she oft been chased with horns and 

hounds 5 

And Scythian ^ shafts, and many winged 

wounds 
Aimed at her heart ; was often forced to fly, 
And doomed to death, though fated not to die. 

Not so her young ; for their unequal Une 
Was hero's make, half human, half divine. 10 

^ a fabulous monster with a hundred heads, 
killed by Hercules ^ the Duke of Buckingham, 
whom Dryden hated personally ^alchemist '•found 
out ^ For the churches symbolized by the beasts 
see the Notes. ^ a general term for barbarians 



Their earthly mould obnoxious was to fate, 
The immortal part assumed immortal state. 
Of these a slaughtered army lay in blood, 
Extended o'er the Caledonian ^ wood. 
Their native walk ; whose vocal blood arose 1 5 
And cried for pardon on their perjured foes. 
Their fate was fruitful, and the sanguine seed, 
Endued with souls, increased the sacred breed. 
So captive Israel multiplied in chains, 
A numerous exile, and enjoyed her pains. 20 
With grief and gladness mixed, their mother 

viewed 
Her martyred offspring and their race re- 
newed ; 
Their corps to perish, but their kind to last, 
So much the deathless plant the dying fruit 
surpassed. 24 

Panting and pensive now she ranged alone, 
And wandered in the kingdoms once her own. 
The common hunt, though from their rage re- 
strained 
By sovereign power, her company disdained, 
Grinned as they passed, and with a glaring eye 
Gave gloomy signs' of secret enmity. 30 

'Tis true she bounded by and tripped so light, 
They had not time to take a steady sight ; 
For truth has such a face and such a mien 
As to be loved needs only to be seen. 

The bloody Bear, an Independent beast 35 
Unlicked to form,^ in groans her hate expressed. 
Among the timorous kind the quaking Hare 
Professed neutrality, but would not swear. 
Next her the buffoon Ape, as atheists use,^ 39 
Mimicked all sects and had his own to choose ; 
StUl when the Lion looked, his knees he bent, 
And paid at church a courtier's compliment. 
The bristled Baptist Boar, impure as he. 
But whitened with the foam of sanctity, 
With fat pollutions filled the sacred place, 45 
And mountains levelled in his furious race : 
So first rebellion founded was in grace. 
But, since the mighty ravage which he made 
In German forests * had his guilt betrayed, 
With broken tusks and with a borrowed name, 
He shunned the vengeance and concealed the 
shame, • 51 

So lurked in sects unseen. With greater guile 
False Reynard fed on consecrated spoil ; 
The graceless beast by Athanasius first 
Was chased from Nice, then by Socinus 
nursed, 

^ Scottish ^ Bear cubs are said to be shapeless 
lumps until licked into shape by the mother bear. 
^ are accustomed ^ at Miinster 



224 



JOHN DRYDEN 



His impious race their blasphemy renewed, s 6 
And nature's king through nature's optics 

viewed ; 
Reversed they viewed him lessened to their 

eye, 
Nor in an infant could a God descry. 
New swarming sects to this obliquely tend, 60 
Hence they began, and here they all wiU end. 

But if they think at all, 'tis sure no higher 316 
Than matter put in motion may aspire ; 
Souls that can scarce ferment their mass of 

clay, 
So drossy, so divisible are they 
As would but serve pure bodies for aUay,^ 320 
Such souls as shards ^ produce, such beetle 

things 
As only buzz to heaven with evening wings, 
Strike in the dark, offending but by chance, 
Such are the blindfold blows of ignorance. 
They know not beings, and but hate a name ; 
To them the Hind and Panther are the same. 



Timotheus,^ placed on high 20 

Amid the tuneful quire, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove,^ 25 

Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love) 
A dragon's fiery form belied ^ the god : 
Sublime on radiant spires^ he rode. 
When he to fair Olympia ^ pressed ; 30 
And while he sought her snowy breast. 
Then round her slender waist he curled. 
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign 
of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 
A present deity, they shout around ; 35 
A present deity, the vavdted roofs rebound : 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god, 
Afiects to nod, 40 

And seems to shake the spheres. 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST ; OR, 
POWER OF MUSIC 



THE 



A SONG IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S 
DAY, 1697 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son : 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne ; 5 

His valiant peers were placed around ; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles 
bound : 
(So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
The lovely Thais, by his side. 
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, 10 

In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair L 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 

Chorus 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 

None but the brave. 

None but the brave. 
None but the brave deserves the fair. 



Chorus 

With ravished ears 
The monarch hears, 
Assumes the god. 
Affects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 



45 



alloy 



' dung 



The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician 
sung. 
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. 
The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ;5o 
Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face : 
Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he 
comes. 
Bacchus, ever fair and yoimg. 

Drinking joys did first ordain ; 55 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
Rich the treasure. 
Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 60 

^a celebrated Athenian musician (d. 357 b.c), 
said to have improved the cithara by adding one 
string to it - fabled to have been Alexander's 
father ^ disguised ^ uplifted in shining spirals 
^ Olympias, mother of Alexander 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST 



225 



Chorus 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 65 

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice 
he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 70 
And while he heaven and earth defied. 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse, 
Soft pity to infuse ; 
He sung Darius ^ great and good, 75 

By too severe a fate. 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 

Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted at his utmost need 80 

By those his former bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revohdng in his altered soul 85 

The various turns of chance below : 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

Chorus 

Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below ; 90 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 

And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree ; 

'Twas but a kindred-sound to move 95 

For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 

War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 

Honour but an empty bubble ; 100 

Never ending, still beginning. 

Fighting still, and still destroying : 
If the world be worth thy winning, 

Think, O think it worth enjoying : 

Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 105 

Take the good the»gods provide thee. 

^ whom Alexander had conquered 



The many rend the skies with loud applause : 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the 
cause. ^ 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 
Gazed on the fair no 

Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 
pressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Chorus 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 

Gazed on the fair 117 

Who caused his care. 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 1 20 
At length, with love and wine at once op- 
pressed. 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bands of sleep asunder 125 

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of 
thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 

Has raised up his head ; 
As awaked from the dead, 

And, amazed, he stares around. 130 
"Revenge, revenge !" Timotheus cries; 
"See the Furies arise ; 
See the snakes that they rear. 
How they hiss in their hair. 
And the spairkles that flash from their 

eyes? 135 

Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were 
slain. 
And unburied remain 
Inglorious on the plain : 140 

Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 

How they point to the Persian abodes, 

And glittering temples of their hostile gods." 

The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 146 

And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to 

destroy ; 

Thais led the way, 

To light him to his prey, 149 

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 



226 



JOHN DRYDEN 



Chorus 

And the iftng seized a flambeau with zeal to 
destroy ; 

Thais led the way, 

To light him to his prey, 153 

And, Uke another Helen, fired another Troy. 

Thus long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And soimding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft 
desire. 1 60 

At last divine Cecilia ^ came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 165 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 
before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down.^ 170 

Grand Chorus 

At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds, 175 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 
before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 180 

LINES PRINTED UNDER THE EN- 
GRAVED PORTRAIT OF MILTON 

{In Tonson's folio edition of the Paradise 
Lost, 1688) 

Three poets,^ in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, 

^ St. Cecilia, the patron saint of musicians and, 
according to legend, the inventor of the organ — 
the "vocal frame," as Dryden calls it "^ An angel 
came to hear her play. ^ Homer, Vergil, and Milton 



The next in majesty, in both the last. 
The force of Nature could no farther go ; 
To make a third she joined the former two. 

From AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC 
POESY 



This moderation of Crites, as it was pleasing 
to all the company, so it put an end to that dis- 
pute ; which Eugenius, who seemed to haye 
the better of the argument, would urge no 
farther. But Lisideius, after he had acknowl- 
edged himself of Eugenius his opinion con- 
cerning the ancients, yet told him, he had 
forborne, till his discourse were ended, to 
ask him, why he preferred the Enghsh plays 
above those of other nations? and whether 
we ought not to submit our stage to the exact- 
ness of our next neighbours? 

Though, said Eugenius, I am at aU times 
ready to defend the honour of my country 
against the French, and to maintain, we are as 
well able to vanquish them with our pens, as 
our ancestors have been with their swords ; 
yet, if you please, added he, looking upon Ne- 
ander, I will commit this cause to my friend's 
management ; his opinion of our plays is the 
same with mine: and besides, there is no 
reason, that Crites and I, who have now left 
the stage, ^ should reenter so suddenly upon 
it ; which is against the laws of comedy. 

If the question had been stated, replied 
Lisideius, who had writ best, the French or 
English, forty years ago, I should have been 
of your opinion, and adjudged the honour to 
our own nation ; but since that time, (said he, 
turning towards Neander,) we have been so 
long together bad Englishmen, that we had not 
leisure to be good poets. Beaumont, Fletcher, 
and Jonson, (who were only capable of bring- 
ing us to that degree of perfection which we 
have,) were just then leaving the world ; as 
if in an age of so much horror, wit, and those 
milder studies of humanity, had no farther 
business among us. But the muses, who ever 
follow peace, went to plant in another coun- 
try: it was then that the great Cardinal of 
Richelieu began to take them into his pro- 
tection ; and that, by his encouragement, 
Corneille, and some other Frenchmen, re- 
formed their theati^, which before was as 

^i.e,, ceased from discussion 



AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 



227 



much below ours, as it now surpasses it and 
the rest of Europe. But because Crites, in 
his discourse for the ancients, has prevented 
me, by observing many rules of the stage, 
which the moderns have borrowed from them, 
I shall only, in short, demand of you, whether 
you are not convinced that of all nations the 
French have observed them? In the unity 
of time you find them so scrupulous, that it 
yet rem.ains a dispute among their poets, 
whether the artificial day of twelve hours, 
more or less, be not meant by Aristotle, 
rather than the natural one of twenty-four; 
and consequently, whether all plays ought 
not to be reduced into that compass. This 
I can testify, that in all their dramas writ 
within these last tAventy years and upwards, 
I have not observed any that have extended 
the tim.e to thirty hours. In the unity of 
place they are full as scrupulous ; for many of 
their critics limit it to that very spot of ground 
where the play is supposed to begin ; none 
of them exceed the compass of the same town 
or city. 

The unity of action in all their plays is yet 
more conspicuous ; for they do not burden 
them with under-plots, as the English do : 
which is the reason why many scenes of our 
tragi-comedies carry on a design that is 
nothing of kin to the main plot; and that 
we see two distinct webs in a play, like those 
in ill-wrought stuffs ; and two actions, that 
is, two plays, carried on together, to the con- 
founding of the audience ; who, before they 
are warm in their concernments for one part, 
are diverted to another ; and by that means 
espouse the interest of neither. From hence 
likewise it arises, that the one half of our 
actors are not known to the other. They 
keep their distances, as if they v/ere Mon- 
tagues and Capulets, and seldom begin an 
acquaintance tUl the last scene of the fifth 
act, when they are all to meet upon the stage. 
There is no theatre in the world has anything 
so absurd as the English tragi-comedy ; it is 
a drama of our own mvcntion, and the fashion 
of it is enough to proclaim it so ; here a course 
of mirth, there another of sadness and passion, 
and a third of honour and a duel : thus, in two 
hours and a half we run through all the fits of 
Bedlam. The French affords you as much 
variety on the same day, but they do it not 
so unseasonably, or mal d propos, as we: our 
poets present you the play and the farce 
together ; and our stages still retain some- 



what of the original civility* of the Red 
Bull : 2 

Atque ursum et pugiles media inter carmina 
poscunt.^ 

The end of tragedies or serious plays, says 
Aristotle, is to beget admiration, compassion, 
or concernment ; but are not mirth and com- 
passion things incompatible ? and is it not evi- 
dent, that the poet must of necessity destroy 
the former by intermingling of the latter ? that 
is, he must ruin the sole end and object of his 
tragedy, to introduce somewhat that is forced 
into it, and is not of the body of it. Would 
you not think that physician mad, who, hav- 
ing prescribed a purge, should immediately 
order you to take restringents ? 

But to leave our plays, and return to theirs. 
I have noted one great advantage they have 
had in the plotting of their tragedies ; that is, 
they are always grounded upon some known 
history : according to that of Horace, Ex nolo 
fictum carmen sequar; * and in that they have 
so imitated the ancients, that they have sur- 
passed them. For the ancients, as was ob- 
served before, took for the foundation of 
their plays some poetical fiction, such as 
under that consideration could move but little 
concernment in the audience, because they 
already knew the event of it. But the French 
goes farther : 

Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, 
Prima ne medium, medio ne discrepet hnuvi} 

He so interweaves truth with probable fiction, 
that he puts a pleasing fallacy upon us, mends 
the intrigues of fate, and dispenses with the 
severity of history, to reward that virtue 
which has been rendered to us there unfortu- 
nate. Sometimes the story has left the suc- 
cess so doubtful, that the writer is free, by 
the privilege of a poet, to take that which of 
two or more relations will best suit with his 
design : as for example, in the death of Cyrus, 
whom Justin '' and some others report to have 
perished in the Scythian war, but Xenophon 

^ Spoken ironically. ^ one of the older theatres 
of London * And in the midst 01 the poems they 
call for the bears and the boxers. ^ On a known 
fact I base a feigned song. '■' He so mixes false 
with true that the middle may not disagree with 
the beginning nor the end with the middle. ^ a 
Roman historian 



228 



JOHN DRYDEN 



afi&rms to have died in his bed of extreme old 
age. Nay more, when the event is past 
dispute, even then we are wilhng to be de- 
ceived, and the poet, if he contrives it with 
appearance of truth, has all the audience of 
his party ; at least during the time his play 
is acting : so naturally we are kind to virtue, 
when our own interest is not in question, that 
we take it up as the general concernment of 
mankind. On the other side, if you consider 
the historical plays of Shakespeare, they are 
rather so many chronicles of kings, or the busi- 
ness many times of thirty or forty years, 
cramped into a representation of two hours 
and a half ; which is not to imitate or paint 
nature, but rather to draw her in miniature, 
to take her in little ; to look upon her through 
the wrong end of a perspective,^ and receive 
her images not only much less, but infinitely 
more imperfect than the life : this, instead 
of making a play delightful, renders it 
ridiculous : 

Quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi? 

For the spirit of man cannot be satisfied but 
with truth, or at least verisimility ; and a poem 
is to contain, if not ra €Tvfxa,^ yet erv/Aoicriv 
o^ota,^ as one of the Greek poets has expressed 
it. 

Another thing in which the French differ 
from us and from the Spaniards, is, that they 
do not embarrass, or cumber themselves with 
too much plot ; they only represent so much of 
a story as wUl constitute one whole and great 
action sufficient for a play : we, who under- 
take more, do but multiply adventures; 
which, not being produced from one another, 
as effects from causes, but barely following, 
constitute many actions in the drama, and 
consequently make it many plays. 

But by pursuing closely one argument, 
which is not cloyed with many turns, the 
French have gained more liberty for verse, in 
which they write : they have leisure to dwell 
■ on a subject which deserves it ; and to repre- 
sent the passions, (which we have acknowl- 
edged to be the poet's work,) without being 
hurried from one thing to another, as we are 
in the plays of Calderon,'' which we have seen 
lately upon our theatres, under the name of 
Spanish plots. I have taken notice but of 

^ telescope ^ Whatever you show me thus, I dis- 
believe and hate. ^ true things ■* things resembling 
truth ^ a famous Spanish dramatist 



one tragedy of ours, whose plot has that uni- 
formity and unity of design in it, which I 
have commended in the French ; and that is 
"RoUo," ^ or rather, under the name of Rollo, 
the story of Bassianus and Geta in Herodian : ^ 
there indeed the plot is neither large nor intri- 
cate, but just enough to fill the minds of the 
audience, not to cloy them. Besides, you 
see it founded upon the truth of history, — 
only the time of the action is not reduceable 
to the strictness of the rules ; and you see in 
some places a little farce mingled, which is 
below the dignity of the other parts; and in 
this all our poets are extremely peccant : even 
Ben Jonson himself, in "Sejanus" and 
"CatUine," has given us this olio of a play, 
this unnatural mixture of comedy and tragedy, 
which to me sounds just as ridiculously as the 
history of David with the merry humours of 
Goliath. In "Sejanus" you may take notice 
of the scene betwixt Li via and the physician, 
which is a pleasant satire upon the artificial 
helps of beauty: in "Catiline" you may see 
the parliament of women ; the little envies of 
them to one another ; and all that passes 
betwixt Curio and Fulvia : scenes admirable 
in their kind, but of an ill mingle with the rest. 
But I return again to the French writers, 
who, as I have said, do not burden themselves 
too much with plot, which has been re- 
proached to them by an ingenious person of 
our nation as a fault ; for he says, they com- 
monly make but one person considerable in a 
play; they dwell on him, and his concern- 
ments, while the rest of the persons are only 
subservient to set him off. If he intends this 
by it, — that there is one person in the play 
who is of greater dignity than the rest, he 
must tax, not only theirs, but those of the 
ancients, and, which he would be loth to do, 
the best of ours ; for it is impossible but that 
one person must be more conspicuous in it 
than any other, and consequently the great- 
est share in the action must devolve on him. 
We see it so in the management of all affairs ; 
even in the most equal aristocracy, the balance 
cannot be so justly poised, but some one will 
be superior to the rest, either in parts, for- 
tune, interest, or the consideration of some 
glorious exploit ; which will reduce the 
greatest part of business into his hands. 

^ The Bloody Brother, or Rollo Duke of Nor- 
mandy, a play by Fletcher and others ^ a Greek 
writer of the history of Rome from 180-238 



AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 



229 



But, if he would have us to imagine, that in 
exalting one character the rest of them are 
neglected, and that all of them have not some 
share or other in the action of the play, I de- 
sire him to produce any of Corneille's trage- 
dies, wherein every person (like so many 
servants in a well-governed family) has not 
some employment, and who is not necessary 
to the carrying on of the plot, or at least to 
your understanding it. 

There are indeed some protatic ^ persons in 
the ancients, whom they make use of in their 
plays, either to hear, or give the relation :- but 
the French avoid this with great address, 
making their narrations only to, or by such, 
who are some way interested in the main de- 
sign. And now I am speaking of relations, I 
cannot take a fitter opportunity to add this 
in favour of the French, that they often use 
them with better judgment and more a propos 
than the English do. Not that I commend 
narrations in general, — but there are two 
sorts of them; one, of those things which 
are antecedent to the play, and are related to 
make the conduct of it more clear to us ; but 
it is a fault to choose such subjects for the 
stage as will force us on that rock, because we 
see they are seldom listened to by the audi- 
ence, and that is many times the ruin of the 
play ; for, being once let pass without atten- 
tion, the audience can never recover them- 
selves to understand the plot ; and indeed it 
is somewhat unreasonable, that they should 
be put to so much trouble, as, that to compre- 
hend what passes in their sight, they must 
have recourse to what was done, perhaps, ten 
or twenty years ago. 

But there is another sort of relations, that is, 
of things happening in the action of the play, 
and supposed to be done behind the scenes ; 
and this is many times both convenient and 
beautiful : for, by it the French avoid the 
tumult to which we are subject in England, 
by representing duels, battles, and the like ; 
which renders our stage too like the theatres 
where they fight prizes. For what is more 
ridiculous than to represent an army with a 
drum and five men behind it ; all which, the 
hero of the other side is to drive in before him ? 
or to see a duel fought, and one slain with two 
or three thrusts of the foils, which we know 
are so blunted, that we might give a man 

^ introductory " narration of events not shown 
on the stage 

AE 



an hour to kill another in good earnest with 
them? 

I have observed, that in all our tragedies the 
audience cannot forbear laughing when the 
actors are to die; it is the most comic part 
of the whole play. All passions may be lively 
represented on the stage, if to the well-writing 
of them the actor supplies a good commanded 
voice, and limbs that move easily, and without 
stiffness ; but there are many actions which 
can never be imitated to a just height : dying 
especially is a thing which none but a Roman 
gladiator could naturally perform on the stage, 
when he did not imitate, or represent, but do 
it ; and therefore it is better to omit the repre- 
sentation of it. 



I shall grant Lisideius, without much dis- 
pute, a great part of what he has urged 
against us ; for I acknowledge, that the 
French contrive their plots more regularly, 
and observe the laws of comedy, and decorum 
of the stage, (to speak generally,) with more 
exactness than the English. Farther, I deny 
not but he has taxed us justly in some irreg- 
ularities of ours, which he has mentioned; 
yet, after all, I am of opinion, that neither of 
our faults, nor their virtues, are considerable 
enough to place them above us. 

For the lively imitation of nature being in 
the definition of a play, those which best ful- 
fil that law, ought to be esteemed superior 
to the others. 'Tis true, those beauties of 
the French poesy are such as will raise per- 
fection higher where it is, but are not sufiiicient 
to give it where it is -not : they are indeed the 
beauties of a statue, but not of a man, because 
not animated with the soul of poesy, which is 
imitation of humour and passions : and this 
Lisideius himself, or any other, however 
biassed to their party, cannot but acknowl- 
edge, if he will either compare the himiours 
of our comedies, or the characters of our 
serious plays, with theirs. He who will look 
upon theirs which have been written till 
these last ten years, or thereabouts, will find 
it an hard matter to pick out two or three pass- 
able humours amongst them. Corncille him- 
self, their arch-poet, what has he produced 
except "The Liar," ^ and you know how it was 
cried up in France ; but when it came upon 
the Eughsh stage, though well translated, 

^ Le Menteur 



230 



JOHN DRYDEN 



and that part of Dorant acted to so much 
advantage as I am confident it never received 
in its own country, the most favourable to it 
would not put it in competition with many 
of Fletcher's or Ben Jonson's. In the rest 
of Corneille's comedies you have httle hu- 
mour; he "tells you himself, his way is, first 
to show two lovers in good intelligence with 
each other; in the working up of the play, 
to embroil them by some mistake, and in the 
latter end to clear it, and reconcile them. 

But of late years Moliere, the younger Cor- 
neiUe,! Quinault,^ and some others, have been 
imitating afar off the quick turns and graces 
of the English stage. They have mixed their 
serious plays with mirth, like our tragi-come- 
dies, since the death of Cardinal Richelieu, 
which Lisideius, and many others, not ob- 
serving, have commended that in them for 
a virtue, which they themselves no longer 
practise. Most of their new plays are, like 
some of ours, derived from the Spanish novels. 
There is scarce one of them without a veil,^ 
and a trusty Diego,* who drolls much after the 
the rate of the "Adventures."* But their 
humours, if I may grace them with that name, 
are so thin sown, that never above one of 
them comes up in any play. I dare take upon 
me to find more variety of them, in some one 
play of Ben Jonson's, than in all theirs to- 
gether: as he who has seen the "Alchemist," 
"The Silent Woman," or "Bartholomew 
Fair," cannot but acknowledge with me. 

I grant the French have performed what 
was possible on.the ground-work of the Span- 
ish plays; what was pleasant before, they 
have m.ade regular : but there is not above one 
good play to be writ on all those plots ; they 
are too much alike to please often, which we 
need not the experience of our own stage to 
justify. As for their new way of mingling 
mirth with serious plot, I do not, with Lisi- 
deius, condemn the thing, though I cannot 
approve their manner of doing it. He tells 
us, we cannot so speedily recollect ourselves 
after a scene of great passion and concern- 
ment, as to pass to another of mirth and 
humour, and to enjoy it with any relish : 
but why should he imagine the soul of man 

^ Thomas, younger brother of Pierre Comeille 
^ Philippe Quinault, the creator of lyric tragedy 
^ nun * servant ^ The Adventures of Five Hours, 
a play translated by Sir Samuel Tuke from 
Calderon 



more heavy than his senses? Does not the 
eye pass from an unpleasant object to a 
pleasant, in a much shorter time than is re- 
quired to this? and does not the unpleasant- 
ness of the first commend the beauty of the 
latter? The old rule of logic might have 
convinced him, that contraries, when placed 
near, set off each other. A continued gravity 
keeps the spirit too much bent ; we must 
refresh it sometimes, as we bait in a jour- 
ney, that we may go on with greater ease. 
A scene of mirth, mixed with tragedy, has the 
same effect upon us which our music has 
betwixt the acts ; which v^e find a rehef to i 
us from the best plots and language of the 
stage, if the discourses have been long. I 
must therefore have stronger arguments, ere 
I am convinced that compassion and mirth in 
the same subject destroy each other ; and in 
the meantime, cannot but conclude, to the 
honour of our nation, that we have invented, 
increased, and perfected, a more pleasant way 
of writing for the stage, than was ever known 
to the ancients or moderns of any nation, 
which is tragi-comedy. 

And this leads me to wonder why Lisideius 
and many others should cry up the barren- 
ness of the French plots, above the variety 
and copiousness of the English. Their plots 
are single, they carry on one design, which is 
pushed forward by all the actors, every scene 
in the play contributing and moving towards 
it. Our plays, besides the main design, have 
.underplots, or bj^concernments, of less con- 
siderable persons and intrigues, which are 
carried on with the motion of the main plot : 
as they say the orb of the fixed stars, and 
those of the planets, though they have 
motions of their own, are whirled about by 
the motion of the primum mobile} in which 
they are contained. That simihtude ex- 
presses much of the English stage; for if 
contrary motions may be found in nature 
to agree ; if a planet can go east and west at 
the same time ; — ■ one way by virtue of his 
own motion, the other by the force of the first 
mover ; - — -it will not be difficidt to imagine 
how the under-plot, which is only different, 
not contrary to the great design, may natu- 
rally be conducted along with it. 

Eugenius has already shown us, from the 
confession of the French poets, that the 

1 See the note on Milton's Hymn on the Nativity, 
1. 48. - primum mobile 



AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 



231 



unity of action is sufficiently presesved, if 
all the imperfect actions of the play are 
conducing to the main design; but when 
those petty intrigues of a play are so Ul 
ordered, that they have no coherence with 
the other, I must grant that Lisideius has 
reason to tax that want of due connec- 
tion ; for coordination in a play is as dan- 
gerous and unnatural as in a state. In the 
meantime he must acknowledge, our variety, 
if well ordered, will afford a greater pleasure 
to the audience. 



I hope I have already proved in this dis- 
course, that though we are not altogether so 
punctual ^ as the French, in observing the laws 
of comedy, yet our errors are so few, and little, 
and those things wherein we excel them so 
considerable, that we ought of right to be 
preferred before them. But what will Lisi- 
deius say, if they themselves acknowledge 
they are too strictly bounded by those laws, 
for breaking which he has blamed the Eng- 
Ush? I will allege Corneille's words, as I 
find them in the end of his Discourse of the 
three Unities : // est facile aux speculatifs 
u3stre scvcres, etc. ''It is easy for specula- 
tive persons to judge severely ; but if they 
would produce to public view ten or twelve 
pieces of this nature, they would perhaps give 
more latitude to the rules than I have done, 
when, by experience, they had known how 
much we are limited and constrained by them, 
and how many beauties of the stage they ban- 
ished from it." To illustrate a little what he 
has said : — by their servile observations of 
the unities of time and place, and integrity of 
scenes, they have brought on themselves that 
dearth of plot, and narrowness of imagination, 
which may be observed in all their plays. 
How many beautiful accidents might natu- 
rally happen in two or three days, which can- 
not arrive with any probability in the com- 
pass of twenty-four hours? There is time to 
be allowed also for maturity of design, which 
amongst great and prudent persons, such as 
are often represented in tragedy, cannot, with 
any likelihood of truth, be brought to pass at 
so short a warning. Farther, by tying them- 
selves strictly to the unity of place, and un- 
broken scenes, they are forced many times to 
omit some beauties which cannot be shown 



where_ the act began ; but might, if the scene 
were interrupted, and the stage cleared for 
the persons to enter in another place; and 
therefore the French poets are often forced 
upon absurdities : for if the act begins in a 
chamber, all the persons in the play must have 
some business or other to come thither, or 
else they are not to be shown that act ; and 
sometimes their characters are very unfitting 
to appear there : as suppose it were the king's 
bed-chamber, yet the meanest man in the 
tragedy must come and despatch his business 
there, rather than in the lobby, or court-yard, 
(which is fitter for him,) for fear the stage 
should be cleared, and the scenes broken. 
Many times they fall by it into a greater incon- 
venience; for they keep their scenes un- 
broken, and yet change the place; as in one 
of their newest plays, where the act begins 
in the street. There a gentleman is to meet 
his friend ; he sees him with his man, coming 
out from his father's house ; they talk to- 
gether, and the first goes out : the second, 
who is a lover, has made an appointment 
with his mistress ; she appears at the window, 
and then Ave are to imagine the scene lies 
under it. This gentleman is called away, and 
leaves his servant with his mistress : presently 
her father is heard from within ; the young 
lady is afraid the serv'ing-man should be dis- 
covered, and thrusts him into a place of safet}', 
which is supposed to be her closet. After 
this, the father enters to the daughter, and now 
the scene is in a house : for he is seeking from 
one room to another for this poor Phihpin,^ or 
French Diego, who is heard from within, 
drolling and breaking many a miserable 
conceit on the subject of his sad condition. 
In this ridiculous manner the play goes for- 
ward, the stage being never empty all the 
whUe : so that the street, the window, the 
two houses, and the closet, are made to walk 
about, and the persons to stand still. Now, 
what, I beseech you, is more easy than to 
■\^Tite a regular French play, or more difficult 
than to AATite an irregular English one, like 
those of Fletcher, or of Shakespeare? 

If they content themselves, as Corneille 
did, with some flat design, which, like an ill 
riddle, is found out ere it be half proposed, 
such plots we can make every way regular as 
easily as they ; but whenever they endeavour 
to rise to any quick turns and counter-turns of 



^ exact 



^ a conventional name for a servant 



232 



JOHN DRYDEN 



plot, as some of them have attempted, since 
Corneille's plays have been less in vogue, you 
see they write as irregularly as we, though 
they cover it more speciously. Hence the 
reason is perspicuous, why no French plays, 
when translated, have, or ever can succeed on 
the English stage. For, if you consider the 
plots, our own are fiiller of variety ; if the 
writing, ours are more quick and fuller of 
spirit ; and therefore 'tis a strange mistake 
in those who decry the way of writing plays in 
verse, as if the English therein imitated the 
French. We have borrowed nothing from 
them ; our plots are weaved in English looms : 
we endeavour therein to foUow the variety 
and greatness of characters, which are de- 
rived to us from Shakespeare and Fletcher; 
the copiousness and well-knitting of the in- 
trigues we have from Jonson ; and for the 
verse itself we have English precedents of 
elder date than any of Corneille's plays. Not 
to name our old comedies before Shakespeare, 
which were aU writ in verse of six feet, or 
Alexandrines, such as the French now use, — 
I can show in Shakespeare, many scenes of 
rhyme together, and the like in Ben Jonson's 
tragedies: in "Catiline" and "Sejanus" 
sometimes thirty or forty lines, — I mean be- 
sides the chorus, or the monologues ; which, 
by the way, showed Ben no enemy to this way 
of writing, especially if you read his "Sad 
Shepherd," which goes sometimes on rhyme, 
sometimes on blank verse, like an horse who 
eases himself on trot and amble. You find 
him likewise commending Fletcher's pastoral 
of "The Faithful Shepherdess," which is for 
the most part rhyme, though not refined to 
that purity to which it hath since been 
brought. And these examples are enough 
to clear us from a servile imitation of the 
French. 

But to return whence I have digressed : I 
dare boldly affirm these two things of the 
English drama ; — First, that we have many 
plays of ours as regular as any of theirs, and 
which, besides, have more variety of plot and 
characters ; and, secondly, that in most of the 
irregular plays of Shakespeare or Fletcher, 
(for Ben Jonson's are for the most part regu- 
lar), there is a more masculine fancy, and 
greater spirit in the writing, than there is in 
any of the French. I could produce even in 
Shakespeare's and Fletcher's works, some 
plays which are almost exactly formed ; as the 
"Merry Wives of Windsor," and "The Scorn- 



ful Lady " : ^ but, because (generally speaking) 
Shakespeare, who writ first, did not perfectly 
observe the laws of comedy, -and Fletcher, 
who came nearer to perfection, yet through 
carelessness made many faults ; I will take the 
pattern of a perfect play from Ben Jonson, 
who was a careful and learned observer of the 
dramatic laws, and from all his comedies I 
shall select "The Silent Woman;" of which 
I will make a short examen, according to 
those rules which the French observe. 

As Neander was beginning to examine "The 
Silent Woman," Eugenius, earnestly regard- 
ing him : I beseech you, Neander, said he, 
gratify the company, and me in particular, so 
far as, before you speak of the play, to give 
us a character of the author; and tell us 
frankly your opinion, whether you do not 
think all writers, both French and English, 
ought to give place to him? 

I fear, replied Neander, that, in obeying 
your commands, I shall draw some envy on 
myself. Besides, in performing them, it wiU 
be first necessary to speak somewhat of 
Shakespeare and Fletcher, his rivals in poesy ; 
and one of them, in my opinion, at least his 
equal, perhaps his superior. 

To begin then with Shakespeare. He was 
the man who of all modern, and perhaps an- 
cient poets, had the largest and most compre- 
hensive soul. AU the images of nature were 
still present to him, and he drew them not 
laboriously, but luckily : when he describes 
anything, you more than see it, you feel it too. 
Those who accuse him to have wanted learn- 
ing, give him the greater commendation : he 
was naturally learned ; he needed not the 
spectacles of books to read nature ; he looked 
inwards, and found her there. I cannot say 
he is everywhere alike ; were he so, I should 
do him injury to compare him with the great- 
est of mankind. He is many times flat, 
insipid ; his comic wit degenerating into 
clenches,^ his serious swelling into bombast. 
But he is always great, when some great occa- 
sion is presented to him : no man can say, he 
ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not 
then raise himself as high above the rest of 
poets, 

Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cuprcssi? 

^by Fletcher and Beaumont * comic "gags" 
'As do the tall cypresses above the laggard 
shrubs. 



AN ESSAY OF DRAMATIC POESY 



233 



The consideration of this made Mr. Hales 
of Eton say, that there was no subject of 
which any poet ever writ, but he would pro- 
duce it much better done in Shakespeare ; 
and however others are now generally pre- 
ferred before him, yet the age wherein he 
lived, which had contemporaries with him, 
Fletcher and Jonson, never equalled them to 
him in their esteem : and in the last king's 
court, when Ben's reputation was at highest, 
Sir John Suckling, and with him the greater 
part of the courtiers, set our Shakespeare far 
above him. 

Beaumont and Fletcher^ of whom I am next 
to speak, had, with the advantage of Shake- 
speare's wit, which was their precedent, great 
natural gifts, improved by study ; Beaumont 
especially being so accurate a judge of plays, 
that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted 
all his -ftTitings to his censure, and 'tis thought, 
used his judgment in correcting, if not con- 
triving, all his plots. What value he had for 
him, appears by the verses he writ to him ; 
and therefore I need speak no farther of it. 
The first play that brought Fletcher and him 
in esteem, was their "Philaster"; for before 
that, they had written two or three very 
unsuccessfully : as the like is reported of Ben 
Jonson, before he writ ''Every Man in his 
Humour." Their plots were generally more 
regular than Shakespeare's, especially those 
which were made before Beaumont's death ; 
and they understood and imitated the con- 
versation of gentlemen much better ; whose 
wild debaucheries, and quickness of wit in 
repartees, no poet before them could paint as 
they have done. Humour,^ which Ben Jonson 
derived from particular persons, they made 
it not their business to describe : they repre- 
sented all the passions very lively, but above 
all, love. I am apt to believe the English 
language in them arrived to its highest per- 
fection ; what words have since been taken in, 
are rather superfluous than ornamental. 
Their plays are now the most pleasant and 
frequent entertainments of the stage ; two of 
theirs being acted through the year for one of 
Shakespeare's or Jonson's : the reason is, 
because there is a certain gaiety in their come- 
dies, and pathos in their more serious plays, 
which suits generally with all men's humours. 
Shakespeare's language is likewise a httle 

^ a natural or affected peculiarity of thought or 
action 



obsolete, and Ben Jonson's wit comes short 
of theirs. 

As for Jonson, to whose character I am now 
arrived, if we look upon him while he was him- 
self, (for his last plays were but his dotages,) 
I think him the most learned and judicious 
writer which any theater ever had. He was a 
most severe judge of himself, as well as others. 
One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that 
he was frugal of it. In his works you find 
little to retrench or alter. Wit and language, 
and humour also in some measure, we had be- 
fore him ; but something of art was wanting 
to the drama, till he came. He managed his 
strength to more advantage than any who 
preceded him. You seldom find him making 
love in any of his scenes, or endeavouring to 
move the passions ; his genius was too sullen 
and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially 
when he knew he came after those who had 
performed both to such an height. Humour 
was his proper sphere ; and in that he de- 
lighted most to represent mechanic people.^ 
He was deeply conversant in the ancients, 
both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly 
from them : there is scarce a poet or historian 
among the Roman authors of those times, 
whom he has not translated in "Sejanus" 
and "Catiline." But he has done his rob- 
beries so openly, that one may see he fears 
not to be taxed by any law. He invades 
authors like a monarch ; and what would be 
theft in other poets, is only victory in him. 
With the spoils of these writers he so repre- 
sents old Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, 
and customs, that if one of their poets had 
written either of his tragedies, we had seen 
less of it than in him. If there was any fault 
in his language, it was, that he weaved it too 
closely and laboriously, in his comedies espe- 
cially : perhaps too, he did a little too much 
Romanize our tongue, leaving the words 
which he translated almost as much Latin as 
he found them : wherein, though he learnedly 
followed their language, he did not enough 
comply with the idiom of ours. If I would 
compare him with Shakespeare, I must ac- 
knowledge him the more correct poet, 
but Shakespeare the greater wit.^ Shake- 
speare was the Homer, or father of our dra- 
matic poets; Jonson was the Virgil, the 
pattern of elaborate writing ; I admire him, 
but I love Shakespeare. To conclude of him ; 



^ tradespeople 



genius 



234 



SAMUEL PEPYS 



as he has given us the most correct plays, so 
in the precepts which he has laid down in his 
"Discoveries," we have as many and profit- 
able rules for perfecting the stage, as any 
wherewith the French can furnish us. 



SAMUEL PEPYS (i 633-1 703) 

From his DIARY 

September ist. (Lord's day.) Last night 
being very rainy, [the water] broke into my 
house, the gutter being stopped, and spoiled 
all my ceiUngs almost. At church in the 
morning. After dinner we were very merry 
TOth Sir W. Pen ^ about the loss of his tankard, 
though all be but a cheate, and he do not yet 
understand it ; but the tankard was stole by 
Sir W. Batten, and the letter, as from the 
thief, wrote by me, which makes very good 
sport. Captain Holmes and I by coach to 
White Hall ; in our way, I found him by dis- 
course to be a great friend of my Lord's, ^ and 
he told me there was a many did seek to re- 
move him ; but they were old seamen, such as 
Sir J. Minnes, but he would name no more, 
though he do believe Sir W. Batten is one of 
them that do envy him, but he says he knows 
that the King do so love him, and the Duke 
of York too, that there is no fear of him. He 
seems to be very well acquainted with the 
king's rnind, and with all the several factions 
at Court, and spoke all with so much frank- 
ness, that I do take him to be my Lord's 
good friend, and one able to do him great 
service, being a cunning fellow, and one, by 
his own confession to me, that can put on two 
several faces, and look his enemies in the face 
with as much love as his friends. But, good 
God ! what an age is this, and what a world 
is this ! that a man cannot live without play- 
ing the knave and dissimulation. 

2d. Mr. Pickering and I to Westminster 
Hall 3 again , and there walked an houre or two 
talking, and, though he be a fool, yet he keeps 
much company, and will tell all he sees or 
hears, and so a man may understand what the 
common talk of the town is. And I find that 

^ an English admiral and commissioner of the 
Admiralty, father of the founder of Pennsylvania 
^ Edward Montagu, earl of Sandwich, general of 
the English fleet ^ the parliament building 



there are endeavours to get my Lord out of 
play at sea, which 1 believe IVIr. Coventry ^ and 
the Duke ^ do think will make them more abso- 
lute ; but I hope for all this, they wiU not be 
able to do it. My wife tells me that she met 
at Change ^ with my young ladies of the Ward- 
robe,^ and there helped them to buy things, 
and also with Mr. Somerset, who did give her 
a bracelet of rings, which did a little trouble 
me, though I know there is no hurt yet in it, 
but only for fear of further acquaintance. 

3d. Dined at home, and then with my 
wife to the Wardrobe, where my Lady's child 
was christened, my Lord Crewe and his lady, 
and my Lady Montagu, my Lord's mother-in- 
law, were the witnesses, and named Catherine, 
the Queen elect's name ; but to my and all 
our trouble, the Parson of the parish chris- 
tened her, and did not sign the child with the 
sign of the cross. After that was done, we 
had a very fine banquet. 

4th. My wife come to me to Whitehall,^ 
and we went and walked a good while in St. 
James's Parke to see the brave alterations. 

5th. Put my mother and PaU^ into the 
wagon, and saw them going presently — PaU 
crying exceedingly. To my uncle Fenner's to 
dinner, in the way meeting a French footman 
with feathers, who was in quest of my wife, 
and spoke with her privately, but I could not 
tell what it was, only my wife promised to go 
to some place to-morrow morning, which do 
trouble my mind how to know whither it was. 
My wife and I to the fair, and I showed her 
the Italians dancing the ropes, and the women 
that do strange tumbling tricks. 

6th. I went to the Theatre, and saw 
"Elder Brother"^ acted; meeting herewith 
Sir J. Askew, Sir Theophilus Jones, and an- 
other knight, with Sir W. Pen, we to the Ship 
taverne, and there staid, and were merry till 
late at night. 

7 th. Having appointed the young ladies at 
the Wardrobe to go with them to the play to- 
day, my wife and I took them to the Theatre, 
where we seated ourselves close by the King, 

^ Sir William Coventry, M.P., later a commis- 
sioner of the Admiralty ^ the Duke of York, Lord 
High Admiral ^ the Ro^-al Exchange, where there 
were many fine shops ■* The Earl of Sandwich had 
been assigned official residence at the King's Ward- 
robe; the young ladies belonged to his family. 
^ the royal palace ^ his sister Paulina ^ a play by 
Fletcher 



HIS DIARY 



235 



and Duke of York, and Madame Palmer/ 
which was great conteiat ; and, indeed, I can 
never enough admire her beauty. And here 
was " Bartholomew Fayre," ^ with the puppet- 
• showe, acted to-day, which had not been these 
forty years, it being so satyrical against Puri- 
tanism, they durst not till now, which is 
strange they should already dare to do it, and 
the King to countenance it, but I do never a 
whit like it the better for the puppets, but 
rather the worse. Thence home with the 
ladies, it being by reason of our staying a 
great while for the Iving's coming, and the 
length of the play, near nine o'clock before it 
was done. 

8th. (Lord's day.) To church, and com- 
ing home again, found our new mayd Doll 
asleep, that she could not hear to let us in, 
so that we were fain to send a boy in at a 
window to open the door to us. Begun to 
look over my accounts, and, upon the whole, 
I do find myself, by what I can yet see, worth 
near 600/, for which God be blessed. 

9th. To Salisbury Court play-house, where 
was acted the first time, '"Tis pity she's a 
W — e," ^ a simple play, and ill acted, only it 
was my fortune to sit by a most pretty and 
ingenious lady, which pleased me much. 
To the Dolphin, to drink the 305. that we got 
the other day of Sir W. Pen about his tankard. 
Here was Sir R. Slingsby, Holmes, Captain 
Allen, Mr. Tiuner, his wife and daughter, my 
Lady Batten, and Mrs. Martha, &c., and an 
excellent company of fiddlers ; so we exceed- 
ing merry tUl late ; and then we begun to teU 
Sir W. Pen the business, but he had been 
drinking to-day, and so is almost gone, that 
we coiild not make him understand it, which 
caused us more sport. 

nth. To Dr. Williams, who did carry me 
into his garden, where he hath abundance of 
grapes : and he did show me how a dog that 
he hath do kill aU the cats that come thither 
to kiU his pigeons, and do afterwards bury 
them ; and do it with so much care that they 
shall be quite covered ; that if the tip of the 
tail hangs out, he will take up the cat again, 
and dig the hole deeper, which is very strange ; 
and he tells me, that he do believe he hath 
killed above 100 cats. Home to my house to 
dinner, where I found my wife's brother Baity 

^ mistress of the King, later created Duchess 
of Cleveland ^ a comedy by Ben Jonson ^ a 
tragedy by John Ford 



as fine as hands could make him, and his 
servant, a Frenchman, to wait on him, and 
come to have my wife visit a young lady 
which he is a servant ^ to, and have hope to 
trepan,^ and get for his wife. I did give way 
for my wife to go with him. Walking through 
Lincoln's Inn Fields, observed at the Opera 
a new play, " Twelfth Night," was acted there, 
and the King there: so I, against my own 
mind and resolution, could not forbear to go 
in, which did make the play seem a burthen 
to me; and I took no pleasure at all in it: 
and so, after it was done, went home with my 
mind troubled for my going thither, after my 
swearing to my wife that I would never go to 
a play without her. My wife was with her 
brother to see his mistress ^ to-day, and says 
she is young, rich, and handsome, but not 
likely for him to get. 

1 2th. To my Lady's to dinner at the Ward- 
robe ; and in my way upon the Thames, I saw 
the King's new pleasure-boat that is come now 
for the King to take pleasure in aboA^e bridge, 
and also two Gundaloes,^ that are lately 
brought, which are very rich and fine. Called 
at Sir W. Batten's, and there hear that Sir 
W. Pen do take our jest of the tankard very 
ill, which I am sorry for. 

13th. I was sent for by my uncle Fenner 
to come and advise about the burial of my 
aunt, the butcher,^ who I died yesterday. 
Thence to the Wardrobe, where I found my 
wife, and thence she and I to the water to 
spend the afternoon in pleasure, and so we 
went to old George's,^ and there eat as much 
as we would of a hot shoulder of mutton, and 
so to boat again and home. 

14th. Before we had dined comes Sir R. 
Slingsby, and his lady, and a great deal of 
company, to take my wife and I out by barge, 
to show them the King's and Duke's yachts. 
We had great pleasure, seeing all four yachts, 
viz., these two, and the two Dutch ones. 

15th. (Lord's day.) To my aunt Kite's in 
the morning, to help my uncle Fenner to put 
things in order against anon for the bvnial. 
After sermon, with my wife to the burial of 
my aunt Kite, where, besides us and my uncle 
Fenner's family, there was none of any qual- 
ity, but poor and rascally people. So we went 
to church with the corps, and there had ser- 

^ suitor ^ ensnare ^ sweetheart * two gondolas, 
presented to the King by the Duke of Venice 

^ the butcher's wife ^ a tavern 



236 



SAMUEL PEPYS 



vice read at the grave, and back again with 
Pegg Kite, who will be, I doubt, a troublesome 
carrion to us executors, but if she will not be 
ruled, I shall fling up my executorship. 

1 6th. Word is brought me from my 
brother's, that there is a fellow come from my 
father out of the country, on purpose to speak 
with me, and he made a story how he had 
lost his letter, but he was sure it was for me 
to come into the country, which I believed, 
but I afterwards found that it was a rogue 
that did use to play such tricks to get money 
of people, but he got none of me. Letters 
from my father informing me of the court,^ 
and that I must come down and meet him 
at Impington, which I presently resolved to do. 

17th. Got up, telling my wife of my jour- 
ney, and she got me to hire her a horse to go 
along with me. So I went to my Lady's, and 
of Mr. Townsend did borrow a very fine 
side-saddle for my wife, and so, after all 
things were ready, she and I took coach to 
the end of the towne towards Kingsland, and 
there got upon my horse, and she upon her 
pretty mare that I hired for her, and she rides 
very well. By the mare at one time falling, 
she got a fall, but no harm ; so we got to 
Ware, and there supped, and went to bed. 

i8th. Up early, and begun our march : the 
way about Puckridge very bad, and my wife, 
in the very last dirty place of all, got a fall, 
but no hurt, though some dirt. At last, she 
begun, poor wretch, to be tired, and I to be 
angry at it, but I was to blame ; for she is a 
very good companion as long as she is weU. 
In the afternoon, we got to Cambridge, where 
I left my wife at my cozen Angler's, while I 
went t«o Christ's College, and there found my 
brother in his chamber, and talked with him, 
and so to the barber's, and then to my wife 
again, and remounted for Impington, where 
my uncle received me and my wife very 
kindly. 



2 2d. (Lord's day.) To church, where 
we had common prayer, and a dull sermon by 
one Mr. Case, who yet I heard sing very well. 

23d. We took horse, and got early to Bald- 
wick, where there was a fair, and we put in, 
and eat a mouthful of porke, which they made 
us pay i^d. for, which vexed me much. And 

^ the manorial court under which Pepys held 
some of his copyhold estates 



so away to Stevenage, and staid till a shower 
was over, and so rode easily to Welling. We 
supped well, and had two beds in the room, 
and so lay single. 

24th. We rose, and set forth, but found a 
most sad alteration in the roade, by reason of 
last night's rains, they being now all dirty 
and washy, though not deep. So we rode 
easily through, and only drinking at Hollo- 
way, at the sign of a woman with cakes in 
one hand, and a pot of ale in the other, ^ which 
did give good occasion of mirth, resembling 
her to the maid that served us, we got home 
very timely and well, and finding there all 
well, and letters from sea, that speak of my 
Lord's being well ; and his Action, though not 
considerable of any side, at Algiers. 

2-5th. Sir W. Pen told me that I need not 
fear any reflection upon my Lord for their ill 
success at Argier, for more could not be done. 
Meeting Sir R. Slingsby in St. Martin's Lane, 
he and I in his coach through the Mewes, 
which is the way that now aU coaches are 
forced to go, because of a stop at Charing 
Crosse, by reason of digging of a drayne there 
to clear the streets. To my Lord Crewe's, and 
dined with him, where I was used with all im- 
aginable kindness both from him and her. 
And I see that he is afraid my Lord's reputa- 
con will a little suffer in common talk by this 
late successe ; but there is no help for it now. 
The Queen of England, as she is now owned 
and called, I hear, doth keep open court, and 
distinct at Lisbone. To the Theatre, and 
saw "The Merry Wives of Windsor" iU done. 

26th. With my wife by coach to the Thea- 
tre, to show her " King and no King," ^ it being 
very well done. 

27th. At noon, met my wife at the Ward- 
robe ; and there dined, where we found Cap- 
tain Country, my little Captain that I loved, 
who carried me to the Sound, ^ with some grapes 
and millons * from my Lord at Lisbone, the 
first that ever I saw ; but the grapes are rare 
things. In the afternoon comes Mr. Edward 
Montagu, by appointment this morning, to 
talk with my Lady and me about the provi- 
sions fit to be bought and sent to my Lord 

^ the original of the sign called Mother Redcap 
^ a play by Beaumont and Fletcher ^ Pepys had 
accompanied Sir Edward Montagu on his voyage 
to the Sound (a narrow passage between Sweden 
and the Danish island of Zealand) in 1658. 
^ melons 



SAMUEL BUTLER 



237 



along with him. And told us, that we need 
not trouble ourselves how to buy them, for 
the King would pay for all, and that he would 
take care to get them : which put my Lady 
and me into a great deal of ease of mind. 
Here we stayed and supped too ; and, after 
my wife had put up some of the grapes in a. 
basket for to be sent to the King, we took 
coach and home, where we found a hamper of 
millons sent to me also. 

28th. Sir W. Pen and his daughter, and I 
and my wife, to the Theatre, and there saw 
"Father's own Son," ^ a very good play, and 
the first time I ever saw it. 

29th. (Lord's day.) What at dinner and 
supper I drink, I know not how, of my own 
accord, so much wine, that I was even almost 
foxed, and my head ached all night ; so home 
and to bed, without prayers, which I never did 
yet, since I come to the house, of a Sunday 
night : I being now so out of order that I durst 
not read prayers, for fear of being perceived 
by my servants in what case I was. 



SAMUEL BUTLER (1612-1680) 

HUDIBRAS 
PART I. From CANTO I 

We grant, altho' he had much wit, 

H' was very shy of using it. 

As being loath to wear it out ; 

And therefore bore it not about, 

Unless on holidays or so. 

As men their best apparel do. 50 

Beside, 'tis known he could speak Greek 

As naturally as pigs squeak ; 

That Latin was no more difficile, 

Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle : 

Being rich in both, he never scanted 

His bounty unto such as wanted ; 

But much of either would afford 

To many that had not one word. 

For Hebrew roots, altho' they're found 

To flourish most in barren ground, 60 

He had such plenty as sufficed 

To make some think him circumcised : 

And truly so perhaps he was, 

'Tis many a pious Christian's case. 

He was in logic a great critic, 
Profoundly skill'd in analytic : 

^ an old play, by an unknown author 



He could distinguish, and divide 

A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 

On either which he would dispute, 

Confute, change hands, and still confute. 70 

He'd imdertake to prove, by force 

Of argument, a man's no horse ; 

He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 

And that a lord may be an owl, 

A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 

And rooks committee-men and trustees. 

He'd run in debt by disputation, 

And pay with ratiocination. 

All this by syllogism, true 

In mood and figure, he would do. 80 

For rhetoric, he could not ope 
His mouth, but out there flew a trope ; 
And when he happen'd to break off 
I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 
H' had hard words ready to show why, 
And tell what rules he did it by ; 
Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
You'd think he talk'd like other folk : 
For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools. 90 

But, when he pleased to show't, his speech 
In loftiness of sound was rich ; 
A Babylonish dialect. 
Which learned pedants much affect ; 
It was a party-colour'd dress 
Of patch'd and piebald languages: 
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 
Like fustian heretofore on satin ; 
It had an odd promiscuous tone, 
As if h' had talk'd three parts in one ; 100 
Which made some think, when he did gabble, 
Th' had heard three labourers of Babel, 
Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
A leash of languages at once. * 



Beside, he was a shrewd philosopher, 
And had read every text and gloss over ; 
Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath. 
He understood b' implicit faith ; 130 

Whatever sceptic could inquire for, 
For every why he had a wherefore ; 
Knew more than forty of them do, 
As far as words and terms could go ; 
All which he understood by rote, 
And, as occasion served, would quote ; 
No matter whether right or wrong. 
They might be either said or sung. 
His notions fitted things so well, 
That which was which he could not tell, 140 
But oftentimes mistook the one 



238 



OLDHAM AND LOCKE 



For th' other, as great clerks have done. 
He could reduce all things to acts, 
And knew their natures by abstracts ; 
Where Entity and Quiddity, 
The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly ; 
Where truth in person does appear, 
Like words congeal'd in northern air. 
He knew what's what, and that's as high 
As metaphysic wit can fly. 150 

JOHN OLDHAM (1653-1683) 

From A SATIRE DISSUADING FROM 
POETRY 

'Tis so, 'twas ever so, since heretofore 
The blind old bard, with dog and bell before. 
Was fain to sing for bread from door to door : 
The needy muses all turn'd Gipsies then, 159 
And, of the begging-trade, e'er since have 
been: 



My own hard usage here I need not press 
Where you have ev'ry day before your face 
Plenty of fresh resembling instances : 
Great Cowley's muse the same ill treatment 

had. 
Whose verse shall live forever to upbraid 171 
Th' ungrateful world, that left such worth 

unpaid. 
Waller himself may thank inheritance 
For what he else had never got by sense. 
On Butler who can think without just rage, 
The glory, and the scandal of the age? 
Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to 

town, 
Met, ev'ry where, with welcomes of renown. 
Courted, caress'd by all, with wonder read, 
And promises of princely favour fed ; 180 

But what reward for all had he at last. 
After a life in dull expectance pass'd ? 
The wretch, at summing up his misspent days. 
Found nothing left, but poverty, and praise. 
Of all his gains by verse he could not save 
Enough to purchase flannel, and a grave : 
Reduc'd to want, he, in due time, fell sick. 
Was fain to die, and be interr'd on tick ; 
And well might bless the fever that was sent, 
To rid him hence, and his worse fate prevent. 
You've seen what fortune other poets share ; 
View next the factors of the theatre : 192 

That constant mart, which all the year does 

hold, 



Where staple wit is barter 'd, bought, and 

sold. 
Here trading scriblers for their maintenance, 
And livelihood, trust to a lott'ry-chance. 
But who his parts would in the service spend, 
Where all his hopes on vulgar breath depend? 
Where ev'ry sot, for paying half a crown,^ 
Has the prerogative to cry him down. 200 
Sedley indeed may be content with fame, 
Nor care, should an ill-judging audience 

damn ; 
But Settle, and the rest, that write for pence, 
Whose whole estate's an ounce or two of 

brains, 
Should a thin house on tlie third day appear. 
Must starve, or live in tatters all the year. 
And what can we expect that's brave and 

great, 
From a poor needy wretch, that writes to eat? 
Who the success of the next play must wait 
For lodging, food, and clothes, and whose 

chief care 210 

Is how to spunge for the next meal, and 

where ? 



JOHN LOCKE (163 2-1 704) 

From OF THE CONDUCT OF THE 
UNDERSTANDING 

4. Of Practice and Habits. — We are born 
with faculties and powers capable almost of 
anything, such at least as would carry us 
further than can easily be imagined : but it 
is only the exercise of those powers which 
gives us abihty and skill in anything, and leads 
us towards perfection. 

A middle-aged ploughman will scarce ever 
be brought to the carriage and language of a 
gentleman, though his body be as well-pro- 
portioned, and his joints as supple, and his 
natural parts not any way inferior. The legs 
of a dancing-master and the fingers of a 
musician fall as it were naturally, without 
thought or pains, into regular and admirable 
motions. Bid them change their parts, and 
they will in vain endeavour to produce like 
motions in the members not used to them, 
and it will require length of time and long 
practice to attain but some degrees of a like 
abihty. What incredible and astonishing ac- 



^ the price of a good seat 



JOHN BUNYAN 



239 



tions do we find rope-dancers and tumblers 
bring their bodies to ! Not but that sundry in 
almost all manual arts are as wonderful ; but 
I name those which the world takes notice of 
for such, because on that very account they 
give money to see them. All these admired 
motions, beyond the reach and almost con- 
ception of unpractised spectators, are nothing 
but the mere effects of use and industry in 
men whose bodies have nothing peculiar in 
them from those of the amazed lookers-on. 

As it is in the body, so it is in the mind: 
practice makes it what it is ; and most even 
of those excellencies which are looked on as 
natural endowments, wHl be found, when 
examined into more narrowly, to be the prod- 
uct of exercise, and to be raised to that pitch 
only by repeated actions. Some men are re- 
marked for pleasantness in raillery ; others for 
apologues and apposite diverting stories. This 
is apt to be taken for the effect of pure nature, 
and that the rather because it is not got by 
rules, and those who excel in either of them 
never purposely set themselves to the study of 
it as an art to be learnt. But yet it is true, 
that at first some lucky hit, which took with 
somebody and gained him commendation, en- 
couraged him to try again, inclined his 
thoughts and endeavours that way, tiU at last 
he insensibly got a facility in it, without per- 
ceiving how ; and that is attributed wholly to 
nature which was much more the effect of use 
and practice. I do not deny that natural 
disposition may often give the first rise to it, 
but that never carries a man far without use 
and exercise, and it is practice alone that 
brings the powers of the mind, as well as those 
of the body, to their perfection. Many a 
good poetic vein is buried under a trade, and 
never produces anything for want of improve- 
ment. We see the ways of discourse and 
reasoning are very different, even concerning 
the same matter, at court and in the university. 
And he that will go but from Westminster- 
hall ^ to the Exchange will find a different 
genius and turn in their ways of talking ; and 
yet one cannot think that all whose lot fell 
in the city were born with different parts ^ 
from those who were bred at the university 
or inns of court. 

To what purpose all this but to show that 
the dift'erence so observable in men's under- 
standings and parts does not arise so much 

^ i.e., from courtiers to tradesmen ^ abilities 



from their natural faculties as acquired habits. 
He would be laughed at that should go about 
to make a fine dancer out of a country hedger 
at past fifty. And he will not have much 
better success who shall endeavour at that 
age to make a man reason well, or speak 
handsomely, who has never been used to it, 
though you should lay before him a collection 
of aU the best precepts of logic or oratory. 
Nobody is made anything by hearing of rules 
or laying them up in his memory ; practice 
must settle the habit of doing without reflect- 
ing on the rule ; and you may as well hope to 
make a good painter or musician extempore, 
by a lecture and instruction in the arts of 
music and painting, as a coherent thinker or a 
strict reasoner by a set of rules showing him 
wherein right reasoning consists. 

This being so that defects and weakness in 
men's understanding, as well as other facul- 
ties, come from want of a right use of their 
own minds, I am apt to think the fault is 
generally mislaid upon nature, and there is 
often a complaint of want of parts when the 
fault lies in want of a due improvement of 
them. We see men frequently dexterous and 
sharp enough in making a bargain who, if you 
reason with them about matters of religion, 
appear perfectly stupid. 

JOHN BUNYAN (1628-1688) 

From THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
THE FIGHT WITH APOLLYON 

Then I saw in my dream that these"good 
companions, when Christian was gone to the 
bottom of the hill, gave him a loaf of bread, 
a bottle of wine, and a cluster of raisins ; and 
then he went on his way. 

But now, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor 
Christian was hard put to it ; for he had gone 
but a little way, before he espied a foul fiend 
coming over the field to meet him ; his name 
is Apollyon. Then did Christian begin to be 
afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go 
back or to Stand his ground. But he consid- 
ered again that he had no armour for his back ; 
and, therefore, thought that to turn the back 
to him might give him the greater advantage, 
with ease to pierce him with his darts. There- 
fore he resolved to venture and stand his 
ground ; for, thought he, had I no more in 



240 



JOHN BUNYAN 



mine eye than the saving of my life, it would 
be the best way to stand. 

So he went on, and ApoUyon met him. 
Now the monster was hideous to behold ; he 
was clothed with scales, like a fish (and they 
are his pride), he had wings like a dragon, 
feet like a bear, and out of his belly came fire 
and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth 
of a lion. When he was come up to Christian, 
he beheld him with a disdainful countenance, 
and thus began to question with him. 

Apol. Whence come you ? and whither are 
you bound? 

Chr. I am come from the City of Destruc- 
tion, which is the place of all evil, and am 
going to the City of Zion. 

Apol. By this I perceive thou art one of my 
subjects, for all that country is mine, and I am 
the prince and god of it. How is it, then, that 
thou hast run away from thy king ? Were it 
not that I hope thou mayest do me more ser- 
vice, I would strike thee now, at one blow, to 
the ground. 

Chr. I was born, indeed, in your dominions, 
but your service was hard, and your wages 
such as a man could not five on, "for the wages 
of sin is death ;" therefore, when I was come 
to years, I did as other considerate persons do, 
look out, if, perhaps, I might mend myself. 

Apol. There is no prince that will thus 
lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as yet 
lose thee ; but since thou complainest of thy 
service and wages, be content to go back ; 
what our country will afford, I do here promise 
to give thee. 

Chr. But I have let myself to another, even 
to the King of princes ; and how can I, with 
fairness, go back with thee? 

Apol. Thou hast done in this according to 
the proverb, 'Changed a bad for a worse;' 
but it is ordinary for those that have professed 
themselves his servants, after a while to give 
him the slip, and return again to me. Do 
thou so too, and all shall be well. 

Chr. I have given him my faith, and sworn 
my allegiance to him; how, then, can I go 
back from this, and not be hanged as a traitor ? 

Apol. Thou didst the same to me, and yet 
I am willing t6 pass by all, if now thou wilt 
yet turn again and go back. 

Chr. What I promised thee was in my 
nonage; and, besides, I count the Prince 
under whose banner now I stand is able to 
absolve me ; yea, and to pardon also what I 
did as to my compliance with thee ; and be- 



sides, O thou destroying ApoUyon ! to speak 
truth, I like his service, his wages, his servants, 
his government, his company, and country, 
better than thine ; and, therefore, leave off 
to persuade me further; I am his servant, 
and I will follow him. 

Apol. Consider again, when thou art in cool 
blood, what thou art like to meet with in the 
way that thou goest. Thou knowest that, for 
the most part, his servants come to an ill end, 
because they are transgressors against me and 
my ways. How many of them have been put 
to shameful deaths ! and, besides, thou count- 
est his service better than mine, whereas he 
never came yet from the place where he is to 
deliver any that served him out of their hands ; 
but as for me, how many times, as all the 
world very well knows, have I delivered, either 
by power or fraud, those that have faithfully 
served me, from him and his, though taken by 
them ; and so I will deliver thee. 

Chr. His forbearing at present to deliver 
them is on purpose to try their love, whether 
they will cleave to him to the end ; and as 
for the ill end thou say est they come to, that is 
most glorious in their account ; for, for present 
deliverance, they do not much expect it, for 
they stay for their glory, and then they shall 
have it, when their Prince comes in his and 
the glory of the angels. 

Apol. Thou hast already .been unfaithful in 
thy service to him ; and how dost thou think 
to receive wages of him? 

Chr. Wherein, O ApoUyon ! have I been 
unfaithful to him? 

Apol. Thou didst faint at first setting out, 
when thou wast almost choked in the Gulf of 
Despond ; thou didst attempt wrong ways to 
be rid of thy burden, whereas thou shouldest 
have stayed till thy Prince had taken it off ; 
thou didst sinfuUy sleep, and lose thy choice 
thing ; thou wast, also, almost persuaded to 
go back, at the sight of the lions ; and when 
thou talkest of thy journey, and of what thou 
hast heard and seen, thou art inwardly desir- 
ous of vain-glory in all that thou sayest or 
doest. 

Chr. All this is true, and much more which 
thou hast left out ; but the Prince, whom I 
serve and honour, is merciful, and ready to 
forgive ; but, besides, these infirmities pos- 
sessed me in thy country, for there I sucked 
them in ; and I have groaned under them, 
been sorry for them, and have obtained 
pardon of my Prince. 



THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 



241 



Apol. Then ApoUyon broke out into a 
grievous rage, saying, I am an enemy to this 
Prince ; I hate his person, his laws, and people ; 
I am come out on purpose to withstand thee. 

Chr. ApoUyon, beware what you do ; fori 
am in the king's highway, the way of holiness, 
therefore take heed to yourself. 

Apol. Then ApoUyon straddled quite over 
the whole breadth of the way, and said, I am 
void of fear in this matter : prepare thyself to 
die ; for I swear by my infernal den , that thou 
shalt go no further ; here wUl I spiU ^ thy soul. 

And with that he threw a flaming dart at his 
breast ; but Christian had a shield in his hand, 
with which he caught it, and so prevented the 
danger of that. 

Then did Christian draw ; for he saw it was 
time to bestir him : and ApoUyon as fast made 
at him, throwing darts as thick as hail ; by 
the which, notwithstanding all that Christian 
could do to avoid it, ApoUyon wounded him 
in his head, his hand, and foot. This made 
Christian give a little back ; ApoUyon, there- 
fore, followed his work amain, and Christian 
again took courage, and resisted as manfully 
as he coiild. This sore combat lasted for 
above half a day, even tiU Christian was al- 
most quite spent ; for you must know, that 
Christian, by reason of his wounds, must 
needs grow weaker and weaker. 

Then ApoUyon, espying his opportunity, 
began to gather up close to Christian, and 
wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall ; 
and with that. Christian's sword flew out of 
his hand. Then said ApoUyon, I am sure of 
thee now. And with that he had almost 
pressed him to death ; so that Christian began 
to despair of life : but as God would have it, 
whUe ApoUyon was fetching of his last blow, 
thereby to make a full end of this good man. 
Christian nimbly stretched out his hand for 
his sword, and caught it, saying, "Rejoice 
not against me, O mine enemy : when I fall, 
I shall arise;" and with that gave him a 
deadly thrust, which made him give back, as 
one that had received his mortal wound. 
Christian perceiving that, made at him again, 
saying ; "Nay, in all these things we are more 
than conquerors, through him that loved us." 
And with that ApoUyon spread forth his 
dragon's w'ings, and sped him away, that 
Christian for a season saw him no more. 

In this combat no man can imagine, unless 



he had seen and heard as I did, what yelling 
and hideous roaring ApoUyon made aU the 
time of the fight — he spake like a dragon ; 
and, on the other side, what sighs and groans 
burst from Christian's heart. I never saw 
him all the while give so much as one pleasant 
look, till he perceived he had wounded Apol- 
lyon with his two-edged sword ; then, indeed, 
he did smile, and look upward ; but it was the 
dreadfulest sight that ever I saw. 

VANITY FAIR 

Then I saw in my dream, that when they 
were got out of the wilderness, they presently 
saw a town before them, and the name of that 
town is Vanity ; and at the town there is a fair 
kept, called Vanity Fair : it is kept all the year 
long ; it beareth the name of Vanity Fair, be- 
cause the town where it is kept is lighter than 
vanity ; and also because all that is there sold, 
or that Cometh thither, is vanity. As is the 
saying of the wise, "AU that cometh is van- 
ity." 

This fair is no new-erected business, but a 
thing of ancient standing ; I wiU show you the 
original^ of it. 

Almost five thousand years agone, there 
were pilgrims walking to the Celestial City as 
these two honest persons are : and Beelzebub, 
ApoUyon, and Legion, with their companions, 
perceiving by the path that the pilgrims made, 
that their way to the city lay through this 
town of Vanity, they contrived here to set 
up a fair; a fair wherein should be sold aU 
sorts of vanity, and that it should last all the 
year long ; therefore at this fair are all such 
merchandise sold, as houses, lands, trades, 
places, honours, preferments, titles, countries, 
kingdoms, lusts, pleasures, and delights of all 
sorts, as whores, bawds, wives, husbands, 
chUdren, masters, servants, lives, blood, 
bodies, souls, silver, gold, pearls, precious 
stones, and what not. 

And, moreover, at this fair there is at aU 
times to be seen juggling, cheats, games, plays, 
fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of 
every kind. 

Here are to be seen too, and that for nothing, 
thefts, murders, adulteries, false swearers, and 
that of a blood-red colour. 

And as in other fairs of less moment, there 
are the several rows and streets, under their 



^ destroy 



origin 



242 



JOHN BUNYAN 



proper names, where such and such wares are 
vended ; so here Ukewise you have the proper 
places, rows, streets (viz. countries and king- 
doms), where the wares of this fair are soonest 
to be found. Here is the Britain Row, the 
French Row, the Itahan Row, the Spanish 
Row, the German Row, where several sorts 
of vanities are to be sold. But, as in other 
fairs, some one commodity is as the chief of all 
the fair, so the ware of Rome and her merchan- 
dise is greatly promoted in this fair ; only our 
English nation, with some others, have taken 
a dislike thereat. 

Now, as I said, the way to the Celestial City 
lies just through this town where this lusty 
fair is kept ; and he that will go to the City, 
and yet not go through this town, must needs 
"go out of the world." The Prince of princes 
himself, when here, went through this town 
to his own country, and that upon a fair day 
too ; yea, and as I think, it was Beelzebub, 
the chief lord of this fair, that invited him to 
buy of his vanities ; yea, would have made 
him lord of the fair, would he but have done 
him reverence as he went through the town. 
Yea, because he was such a person of honour, 
Beelzebub had him from street to street, 
and showed him all the kingdoms of the world 
in a little time, that he might if possible, allure 
the Blessed One to cheapen^ and buy some of 
his vanities ; but he had no mind to the mer- 
chandise, and therefore left the town, without 
laying out so much as one farthing upon these 
vanities. This fair, therefore, is an ancient 
thing, of long standing, and a very great fair. 
Now these Pilgrims, as I said, must needs go 
through this fair. Well, so they did; but, 
behold, even as they entered into the fair, 
all the people in the fair were moved, and the 
town itself as it were in a hubbub about them ; 
and that for several reasons ; for — 

First, The pilgrims were clothed with such 
kind of raiment as was diverse from the rai- 
ment of any that traded in that fair. The 
people, therefore, of the fair, made a great 
gazing upon them : some said they were fools, 
some they were bedlams,^ and some they are 
outlandish men.^ 

Secondly, And as they wondered at their 
apparel, so they did likewise at their speech ; 
for few could understand what they said ; they 
naturally spoke the language of Canaan, but 
they that kept the fair were the men of this 



world ; so that, from one end of the fair to 
the other, they seemed barbarians each to the 
other. 

Thirdly, But that which did not a httle 
amuse the merchandisers was, that these 
pilgrims set very light by all their wares; 
they cared not so much as to look upon them ; 
and if they called upon them to buy, they 
would put their fingers in their ears, and cry, 
"Turn away mine eyes from beholding van- 
ity," and look upwards, signifying that their 
trade and traffic was in heaven. 

One chanced mockingly, beholding the car- 
riage of the men, to say unto them, "What will 
ye buy?" But they, looking gravely upon 
him, answered, "We buy the truth." At 
that there was an occasion taken to despise 
the men the more : some mocking, some 
taunting, some speaking reproachfully, and 
some calling upon others to smite them. At 
last things came to a hubbub, and great stir 
in the fair, insomuch that all order was con- 
foimded. Now was word presently brought 
to the great one of the fair, who quickly came 
down, and deputed some of his most trusty 
friends to take these men into examination, 
about whom the fair was almost overturned. 
So the men were brought to examination ; and 
they that sat upon them, asked them whence 
they came, whither they went, and what they 
did there in such an unusual garb ? The men 
told them, that they were pilgrims and 
strangers in the world, and that they were 
going to their own country, which was the 
heavenly Jerusalem ; and that they had given 
no occasion to the men of the town, nor yet 
to the merchandisers, thus to abuse them, and 
to let ^ them in their jovirney, except it was, for 
that, when one asked them what they would 
buy, they said they would buy the truth. 
But they that were appointed to examine 
them did not believe them to be any other 
than bedlams and mad, or else such as came 
to put all things into a confusion in the fair. 
Therefore they took them and beat them, 
and besmeared them with dirt, and then 
put them into the cage, that they might be 
made a spectacle to all the men of the fair. 
There, therefore, they lay for some time, and 
were made the objects of any man's sport, or 
malice, or revenge, the great ones of the fair 
laughing still at all that befeU them. But the 
men being patient, and not rendering railing 



^ bargain for ^ lunatics ^ foreigners 



hinder 



MINOR LYRISTS 



243 



for railing, but contrariwise, blessing, and giv- 
ing good words for bad, and kindness for 
injuries done, some men in the fair that were 
more observing, and less prejudiced than the 
rest, began to check and blame the baser sort 
for their continual abuses done by them to the 
men ; they, therefore, in angry manner, let 
fly at them again, counting them as bad as the 
men in the cage, and telling them that they 
seemed confederates, and should be made 
partakers of their misfortunes. The other 
replied, that for aught they could see, the 
men were quiet, and sober, and intended 
nobody any harm ; and that there were many 
that traded in their fair, that were more 
worthy to be put into the cage, yea, and pillory 
too, than were the men that they had abused. 
Thus, after divers words had passed on both 
sides, the men behaving themselves aU the 
while very wisely and soberly before. them, 
they fell to some blows among themselves, 
and did harm one to another. Then were 
these two poor men brought before their 
examiners again, and there charged as being 
guilty of the late hubbub that had been in 
the fair. So they beat them pitifully, and 
hanged irons upon them, and led them in 
chains up and down the fair, for an example 
and a terror to others, lest any should speak 
in their behalf, or join themselves imto them. 
But Christian and Faithful behaved them- 
selves yet more wisely, and received the 
ignominy and shame that was cast upon them, 
with so much meekness and patience, that it 
won to their side, though but few in compari- 
son of the rest, several of the men in the fair. 
This put the other party yet into greater rage, 
insomuch that they concluded the death of 
these two men. Wherefore they threatened, 
that the cage nor irons should serve their 
turn, but that they should die, for the abuse 
they had done, and for deluding the men of 
the fair. 



MINOR LYRISTS 



SONG 

Love still has something of the sea. 
From whence his Mother rose ; 

No time his slaves from love can free, 
Nor give their thoughts repose. 



They are becalm'd in clearest days, 5 

And in rough weather tost ; 
They wither under cold delays, 

Or are in tempests lost. 

One while they seem to touch the port, 
Then straight into the main ^ 10 

Some angry wind in cruel sport 
Their vessel drives again. 

At first disdain and pride they fear, 
Which, if they chance to 'scape. 

Rivals and falsehood soon appear 15 

In a more dreadful shape. 

By such degrees to joy they come, 

And are so long withstood. 
So slowly they receive the sum, 

It hardly does them good. 20 

'Tis cruel to prolong a pain ; 

And to defer a bliss, 
Believe me, gentle Hermione, 

No less inhuman is. 

An hundred thousand oaths your fears 25 

Perhaps wovdd not remove. 
And if I gazed a thousand years, 

I could no deeper love. 
— Sir Charles Sedley (i639?-i7oi) 



TO CELIA 

Not, Celia, that I juster am, 

Or better than the rest ; 
For I would change each hour like them 

Were not my heart at rest. 

But I am tied to very thee 5 

By every thought I have; 
Thy face I onl}'- care to see. 

Thy heart I only crave. 

All that in woman is adored 

In thy dear self I find; 10 

For the whole sex can but afford 

The handsome and the kind. 

Why then should I seek further store 

And still make love anew ? 
When change itself can give no more, 15 

'Tis easy to be true. 
— Sir Charles Sedley (1639?-! 701) 

^ open sea 



244 



MINOR LYRISTS 



LOVE AND LIFE 

AH my past life is mine no more ; 

The iiying hours are gone, 
Like transitory dreams given o'er 
Whose images are kept in store 

By memory alone. 5 

The time that is to come is not ; 

How can it then be mine ? 
The present moment's all my lot ; 
And that, as fast as it is got, 

PhiUis, is only thine. 10 

Then talk not of inconstancy, 
False hearts, and broken vows ; 

If I by miracle can be 

This live-long minute true to thee, 
'Tis all that Heaven allows. 
— John Wilmot, Earl or Rochester 
(i647-i( 



EPITAPH ON CHARLES II 

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, 

Whose word no man relies on, 
Who never said a foolish thing, 

Nor ever did a wise one. 

— John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester 
(1647-1680) 

THE ENCHANTMENT 

I did but look and love awhile, 

'Twas but for one half -hour ; 
Then to resist I had no will. 

And now I have no power. 

To sigh and wish is all my ease ; 

Sighs which do heat impart 
Enough to melt the coldest ice, 

Yet cannot warm your heart. 

O woiold your pity give my heart 

One corner of your breast, 10 

'Twould learn of yours the winning art 
And quickly steal the rest. 

— Thomas Otway (1652-1685) 

TO HIS MISTRESS 

Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O 

why 
Docs that eclipsing hand of thine deny 
The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye? 3 



Without thy Hght what light 'remains in me ? 
Thou art my Ufe ; my way, my hght's in thee ; 
I hve, I move, and by thy beams I see. 6 

Thou art my life — if thou but turn away, 
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my 

way — 
Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray. 9 

My hght thou art — without thy glorious 

sight 
My eyes are darken'd with eternal night. 
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light. 

Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly. 13 
Thou art my light ; if hid, how bhnd am I ! 
Thou art my life ; if thou withdraw'st, I die. 

My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see : 
To whom or whither should my darkness flee. 
But to that light ? — and who's that light 
but thee ? 18 

If I have lost my path, dear lover, say. 
Shall I still wander in a doubtful way? 20 
Love, shaU a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray? 

My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray ; 
I cannot go, nor can I safely stay ; 23 

Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my 
way? 

And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st 

me! 
And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me ! 
Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st 

me? 27 

Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blindman's 

eye, 
The dead man's hfe. On thee my hopes rely : 
If I but them remove, I surely die. 30 

Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and 

stay! 
See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray I 
— O thou art my life, my hght, my way 1 S3 

Then work thy will ! If passion bid me flee. 

My reason shall obey, my wings shall be 

Stretch'd out no farther than from me to 

thee ! 36 

— John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester 

(1647-1680) 



THE CLASSICAL AGE 



DANIEL DEFOE (i66i?-i73i) 

From AN ESSAY UPON PROJECTS 
AN ACADEMY FOR WOMEN 

I have often thought of it as one of the 
most barbarous customs in the world, consid- 
ering us as a civilized and a Christian country, 
that we deny the advantages of learning to 
women. We reproach the sex every day with 
folly and impertinence, while I am confident, 
had they the advantages of education equal 
to us, they would be guilty of less than 
ourselves. 

One would wonder, indeed, how it should 
happen that women are conversible at all, 
since they are only beholding to natural parts 
for all their knowledge. Their youth is spent 
to teach them to stitch and sew or make 
baubles. They are taught to read, indeed, 
and perhaps to write their names or so, and 
that is the height of a woman's education. 
And I would but ask any who slight the sex 
for their understanding, what is a man (a 
gentleman, I mean) good for that is taught 
no more? 

I need not give instances, or examine the 
character of a gentleman with a good estate, 
and of a good family, and with tolerable parts, 
and examine what figure he makes for want of 
education. 

The soul is placed in the body like a rough 
diamond, and must be polished, or the lustre 
of it will never appear : and 'tis manifest 
that as the rational soul distinguishes us from 
brutes, so education carries on the distinction 
and makes some less brutish than others. 
This is too evident to need any demonstra- 
tion. But why then should women be denied 
the benefit of instruction? If knowledge 
and understanding had been useless additions 
to the sex, God Almighty would never have 
given them capacities, for He made nothing 
needless. Besides, I would ask such what 
they can see in ignorance that they should 
think it a necessary ornament to a woman? 



or how much worse is a wise woman than a 
fool? or what has the woman done to forfeit 
the privilege of being taught? Does she 
plague us with her pride and impertinence? 
Why did we not let her learn, that she might 
have had more wit ? Shall we upbraid women 
with folly, when 'tis only the error of this 
inhuman custom that hindered them being 
made wiser ? 

The capacities of women are supposed to 
be greater and their senses quicker than those 
of the men ; and what they might be capable 
of being bred to is plain from some instances 
of female wit,^ which this age is not without ; 
which upbraids us with injustice, and looks 
as if we denied women the advantages of 
education for fear they should vie with the 
men in their improvements. 

To remove this objection, and that women 
might have at least a needful opportunity of 
education in all sorts of useful learning, I 
propose the draught of an Academy for that 
purpose. 

I know 'tis dangerous to make public ap- 
pearances of the sex. They are not either 
to be confined or exposed ; the first will dis- 
agree with their inclinations, and the last 
with their reputations, and therefore it is 
somewhat difficult; and I doubt a method 
proposed by an ingenious lady^ in a little 
book called Advice to the Ladies, would be 
found impracticable, for, saving my respect 
to the sex, the levity, which perhaps is a little 
peculiar to them, at least in their youth, 
will not bear the restraint ; and I am satisfied 
nothing but the height of bigotry can keep 
up a nunnery. Women are extravagantly 
desirous of going to heaven, and will punish 
their pretty bodies to get thither ; but noth- 
ing else will do it, and even in that case some- 
times it falls out that nature will prevail. 

When I talk, therefore, of an academy for 
women, I mean both the model, the teaching, 
and the government different from what is 
proposed by that ingenious lady, for whose 

^ intelligence ^ Mary Astell 



245 



246 



DANIEL DEFOE 



proposal I have a very great esteem, and also 
a great opinion of her wit ; different, too, 
from all sorts of religious confinement, and, 
above all, from vows of celibacy. 

Wherefore the academy I propose should 
differ but little from public schools, wherein 
such ladies as were willing to study should 
have all the advantages of learning suitable 
to their genius. 

But smce some severities of discipline more 
than ordinary would be absolutely necessary 
to preserve the reputation of the house, that 
persons of quality and fortune might not be 
afraid to venture their children thither, I 
shall venture to make a small scheme by way 
of essay. 

The house I would have built in a form by 
itself, as well as in a place by itself. The 
building should be of three plain fronts, 
without any jettings or bearing- work, that the 
eye might at a glance see from one coin ^ to 
the other; the gardens walled in the same 
triangular figure, with a large moat, and but 
one entrance. 

When thus every part of the situation was 
contrived as well as might be for discovery, 
and to render intriguing dangerous, I would 
have no guards, no eyes, no spies set over the 
ladies, but shall expect them to be tried by 
the principles of honor and strict virtue. 



In this house, the persons who enter should 
be taught all sorts of breeding suitable to 
both their genius and their quality; and in 
particular music and dancing, which it would 
be- cruelty to bar the sex of, because they are 
their darlings ; but besides this, they should 
be taught languages, as particularly French 
and Italian ; and I would venture the injury 
of giving a woman more tongues than one. 

They should, as a particular study, be 
taught all the graces of speech and all the 
necessary air of conversation, which our 
common education is so defective in that I 
need not expose it. They should be brought 
to read books, and especially history, and so 
to read as to make them understand the world, 
and be able to know and judge of things when 
they hear of them. 

To such whose genius would lead them to it 
I would deny no sort of learnmg; but the 
chief thing in general is to cultivate the under- 



standings of the sex, that they may be capable 
of aU sorts of conversation ; that, their parts 
and judgments being improved, they may be 
as profitable in their conversation as they are 
pleasant. 

Women, in my observation, have little or 
no difference in them, but as they are or are 
not .distinguished by education. Tempers 
indeed may in some degree influence them, 
but the main distinguishing part is their 
breeding. 

The whole sex are generally quick and 
sharp. I believe I may be allowed to say 
generally so, for you rarely see them lumpish 
and heavy when they are children, as boys 
will often be. If a woman be well bred, and 
taught the proper management of her natural 
wit, she proves generally very sensible and 
retentive ; and without partiality, a woman 
of sense and manners is the finest and most 
delicate part of God's creation, the glory of 
her Maker, and the great instance of His 
singular regard to man, His darling creature, 
to whom He gave the best gift either God 
could bestow or man receive. And 'tis the 
sordidest piece of foUy and ingratitude in 
the world to withhold from the sex the due 
lustre which the advantages of education 
give to the natural beauty of their minds. 

A woman well bred and well taught, fur- 
nished with the additional accomplishments 
of knowledge and behavior, is a creature 
without comparison ; her society is the em- 
blem of sublimer enjoyments; her person is 
angelic and her conversation heavenly ; she 
is all softness and sweetness, peace, love, wit, 
and delight. She is every way suitable to 
the sublimest wish, and the man that has 
such a one to his portion has nothing to do 
but to rejoice in her and be thankful. 

On the other hand, suppose her to be the 
very same woman, and rob her of the benefit 
of education, and it follows thus : — 

If her temper be good, want of education 
makes her soft and easy. Her wit, for want 
of teaching, makes her impertinent and talk- 
ative. Her knowledge, for want of judgment 
and experience, makes her fanciful and whim- 
sical. If her temper be bad, want of breed- 
ing makes her worse, and she grows haughty, 
insolent, and loud. If she be passionate, 
want of manners makes her termagant and a 
scold, which is much at one with lunatic. If 
she be proud, want of discretion (which still 
is breeding) makes her conceited, fantastic, 



AN ESSAY UPON PROJECTS 



247 



and ridiculous. And from these she degen- 
erates to be turbulent, clangorous, noisy, 
nasty, and the devil. 

Methinks mankind for their own sakes — 
since, say what we will of the women, we all 
think fit at one time or other to be concerned 
with them — should take some care to breed ^ 
them up to be suitable and serviceable, if 
they expected no such thing as delight from 
them. Bless us ! what care do we take to 
breed up a good horse and to break him well ! 
and what a value do we put upon him when it 
is done, and all because he shoidd be fit for 
our use ! and why not a woman ? Since all 
her ornaments and beauty without suitable 
behavior is a cheat in nature, like the false 
tradesman, who puts the best of his goods 
uppermost, that the buyer may think the 
rest are of the same goodness. 

Beauty of the body, which is the women's 
glory, seems to be now unequally bestov/ed, 
and Nature, or rather Providence, to lie 
under some scandal about it, as if 'twas given 
a woman for a snare to men, and so made a 
kind of a she-devil of her ; because, they say, 
exquisite beauty is rarely given with wit, 
more rarely with goodness of temper, and 
never at all with modesty. And some, pre- 
tending to justify the equity of such a dis- 
tribution, will tell us 'tis the effect of the 
justice of Providence in dividing particular 
excellencies among all His creatures, share 
and share alike, as it were, that all might for 
something or other be acceptable to one an- 
other, else some would be despised. 

I think both these notions false, and yet 
the last, which has the show of respect to 
Providence, is the worst, for it supposes 
Proiddence to be indigent and empty, as if it 
had not wherewath to furnish all the creatures 
it had made, but was fain to be parsimonious 
in its gifts, and distribute them by piecemeal 
for fear of being exhausted. 

If I might venture my opinion against an 
almost universal notion, I would say most 
men mistake the proceedings of Providence 
in this case, and all the world at this day are 
mistaken in their practice about it. And 
because the assertion is very bold, I desire 
to explain myself. 

That Almighty First Cause v/hich made us 
all is certainly the fountain of excellence, as 
it is of being, and by an invisible influence 

^ train, educate 



could have diffused equal quahties and per- 
fections to all the creatures it has made, as 
the sun does its light, without the least ebb or 
diminution to Himself, and has given indeed 
to every individual sufficient to the figure His 
providence had designed him in the world. 



But to come closer to the business, the 
great distinguishing difl'erence which is seen 
in the world between men and women is in 
their education, and this is manifested by 
comparing it with the difference between one 
man or woman and another. 

And herein it is that I take upon me to 
make such a bold assertion that all the world 
are mistaken in their practice about women ; 
for I cannot think that God Almighty ever 
made them so delicate, so glorious creatures, 
and furnished them with such charms, so 
■ agreeable and so dehghtful to mankind, with 
souls capable of the same accomplishments 
with men, and all to be only stewards of our 
houses, cooks, and slaves. 

Not that I am for exalting the female 
government in the least; but, in short, I 
would have men take women for compan- 
ions, and educate them to be fit for it. A 
woman of sense and breeding will scorn as 
much to encroach upon the prerogative of 
the man as a man of sense will scorn to op- 
press the weakness of the v/oman. But if 
the women's souls were refined and improved 
by teaching, that word would be lost; to 
say, the weakness of the sex as to judgment, 
would be nonsense, for ignorance and folly 
would be no more found among women than 
men. I remember a passage which I heard 
from a very fine woman; she had wit and 
capacity enough, an extraordinary shape and 
face, and a great fortmie, but had been clois- 
tered up all her time, and, for fear of being 
stolen, had not had the liberty of being taught 
the common necessary knowledge of women's 
affairs ; and when she came to converse in the 
world, her natural wit made her so sensible 
of the want of education, that she gave this 
short reflection on herself: — "I am ashamed 
to talk with my very maids," says she, "for I 
don't know when they do right or wrong. I 
had more need go to school than be married." 
I need not enlarge on the loss the defect of 
education is to the sex, nor argue the benefit 
of the contrary practice ; 'tis a thing will be 
more easily granted than remedied. This 



248 



JONATHAN SWIFT 



chapter is but an essay at the thing, and I 
refer the practice to those happy days, if 
ever they shall be, when men shall be wise 
enough to mend it. 

JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745) 

From A TALE OF A TUB 
SECTION II 

Once upon a time there was a man who had 
three sons by one wife and all at a birth, 
neither could the midwife tell certainly which 
was the eldest. Their father died while they 
were young, and upon his death-bed, calling 
the lads to him, spoke thus : 

" Sons, because I have purchased^ no estate, 
nor was born to any, I have long considered of 
some good legacies to bequeath you, and at 
last, with much care as well as expense, have 
provided each of you (here they are) a new 
coat. Now, you are to understand that 
these coats have two virtues contained in 
them ; one is, that with good wearing they will 
last you fresh and sound as long as you live ; 
the other is, that they will grow in the same 
proportion with your bodies, lengthening and 
widening of themselves, so as to be always 
fit. Here, let me see them on you before I 
die. So, very well ! Pray, children, wear 
them clean and brush them often. You will 
find in my will ^ (here it is) full instructions in 
every particular concerning the wearing and 
management of your coats, wherein you must 
be very exact to avoid the penalties I have 
appointed for every transgression or neglect, 
upon which your future fortunes will entirely 
depend. I have also commanded in my will 
that you should live together in one house like 
brethren and friends, for then you will be sure 
to thrive and not otherwise." 

Here the story says this good father died, 
and the three sons went all together to seek 
their fortunes. 

I shall not trouble you with recounting what 
adventures they met for the first seven years, 
any farther than by taking notice that they 
carefully observed their father's will and kept 
their coats in very good order ; that they trav- 
elled through several countries, encountered 
a reasonable quantity of giants, and slew cer- 
tain dragons. 

^ procured '^ the New Testament 



Being now arrived at the proper age for 
producing themselves, they came up to town 
and fell in love with the ladies, but especially 
three, who about that time were in chief repu- 
tation, the Duchess d 'Argent,^ Madame de 
Grands-Titres,^ and the Countess d'Orgueil.* 
On their first appearance, our three adven- 
turers met with a very bad reception, and soon 
with great sagacity guessing out the reason, 
they quickly began to improve in the good 
qualities of the town. They wrote, and 
rallied,^ and rhymed, and sung, and said, and 
said nothing; they drank, and fought, and 
slept, and swore, and took snuff ; they went 
to new plays on the first night, haunted the 
chocolate-houses, beat the watch ; they bilked 
hackney-coachmen, ran in debt with shop- 
keepers, and lay with their wives ; they killed 
bailiffs, kicked fiddlers downstairs, ate at 
Locket's,^ loitered at Will's ; ^ they talked of 
the drawing-room^ and never came there; 
dined with lords they never saw ; whispered 
a duchess and spoke never a word ; exposed 
the scrawls of their laundress for billet-doux 
of quality ; came ever just from court and 
were never seen in it ; attended the levee ^ sub 
dio ; ^ got a list of peers by heart in one com- 
pany, and with great familiarity retailed them 
in another. Above all, they constantly at- 
tended those committees of Senators ^° who are 
silent in the Flouse and loud in the coffee- 
house, where they nightly adjourn to chew the 
cud of politics, and are encompassed with a 
ring of disciples who lie in wait to catch up 
their droppings. The three brothers had 
acquired forty other qualifications of the like 
stamp too tedious to recount, and by conse- 
quence were justly reckoned the most accom- 
plished persons in town. But all would not 
suffice, and the ladies aforesaid continued still 
inflexible. To clear up which difficulty, I 
must, with the reader's good leave and pa- 
tience, have recourse to some points of weight 
which the authors of that age have not suffi- 
ciently illustrated. 

For about this time it happened a sect arose 
whose tenets obtained and spread very far, 
especially in the grand mo'nde,^^ and among 

^ Duchess Money ^ Madame Great Titles 
' Countess Pride * jested ^ a famous tavern ^ a 
fashionable coffee-house ^ reception at court ^ an 
informal reception at court ^ in the open air, 
i.e., they stayed away ^"^ members of the House 
of Commons ^^ fashionable world 



A TALE OF A TUB 



249 



everybody of good fashion. They worshipped 
a sort of idol/ who, as their doctrine delivered, 
did daily create men by a kind of manufactory 
operation. This idol they placed in the 
highest parts of the house on an altar erected 
about three feet. He was shown in the pos- 
ture of a Persian emperor sitting on a super- 
iicies with his legs interwoven under him. 
This god had a goose for his ensign, whence 
it is that some learned men pretend to deduce 
his original from Jupiter Capitolinus.^ At hie 
left hand, beneath the altar, Hell seemed to 
open and catch at the animals the idol was 
creating, to prevent which, certain of his 
priests hourly flung in pieces of the unin- 
formed mass or substance, and sometimes 
whole limbs already enlivened, which that 
horrid gulf insatiably swallowed, terrible to 
behold. The goose was also held a subaltern 
divinity, or Deus minorum gentium,^ before 
whose shrine was sacrificed that creature^ 
whose hourly food is human gore, and who is 
in so great renowTi abroad for being the de- 
light and favourite of the Egyptian Cercopi- 
thecus.^ Millions of these animals were 
cruelly slaughtered every day to appease the 
hunger of that consuming deity. The chief 
idol was also worshipped as the inventor of 
the yard and the needle, whether as the god of 
seamen, or on account of certain other mysti- 
cal attributes, hath not been sufficiently 
cleared. 

The worshippers of this deity had also a 
system of their belief which seemed to turn 
upon the following fundamental. They held 
the imiverse to be a large suit of clothes which 
invests everything ; that the earth is invested 
by the air ; the air is invested by the stars ; 
and the stars are invested by the Primum 
Mobile.^ Look on this globe of earth, you 
will find it to be a very complete and fashion- 
able dress. What is that which some call 
land but a fine coat faced with green, or the 
sea but a waistcoat of water-tabby ? ^ Proceed 
to the particular works of the creation, you 
will find how curious journeyman Nature hath 
been to trim up the vegetable beaux ; observe 
how sparkish a periwig adorns the head of a 

^ a tailor - alluding to the story that Rome was 
saved by tlie cackling of geese ^ a god of the lesser 
peoples * lice ^ the monkey ^ In the Ptolemaic 
system of astronomy, the hollow sphere inclosing 
the universe and moving all things with itself. 
^ watered silk 



beech, and what a fine doublet of white satin 
is worn by the birch. To conclude from all, 
what is man himself but a microcoat,^ or rather 
a complete suit of clothes with all its trim- 
mings? As to his body there can be no dis- 
pute, but examine even the acquirements of 
his mind, you will find them all contribute in 
their order towards furnishing out an exact 
dress. To instance no more, is not religion a 
cloak, honesty a pair of shoes worn out in the 
dirt, self-love a surtout, vanity a shirt, and 
conscience a pair of breeches. 



These postulata^ being admitted, it will 
follow in due course of reasoning that those 
beings which the world calls improperly suits 
of clothes are in reality the most refined species 
of animals, or, to proceed higher, that they are 
rational creatures or men. For is it not mani- 
fest that they live, and move, and talk, and 
perform aU other offices of human life ? Are 
not beauty, and wit, and mien, and breeding 
their inseparable proprieties? In short, we 
see nothing but them, hear nothing but them. 
Is it not they who walk the streets, fill up 
Parliament-, coffee-, play-, bawdy-houses? 
It is true, indeed, that these animals, which 
are vulgarly called suits of clothes or dresses, 
do according to certain compositions receive 
different appellations. If one of them be 
trimmed up with a gold chain, and a red 
gown, and a white rod, and a great horse, it is 
called a Lord Mayor ; if certain ermines and 
furs be placed in a certain position, we style 
them a Judge, and so an apt conjunction of 
lawn and black satin we entitle a Bishop. 

Others of these professors, though agreeing 
in the main system, were yet more refined 
upon certain branches of it ; and held that 
man was an animal compounded of two 
dresses, the natural and the celestial suit, 
which were the body and the soul ; that the 
sold was the outward, and the body the in- 
ward clothing ; that the latter was ex traduce,^ 
but the former of daily creation and circum- 
fusion. This last they proved by Scripture,* 
because in them we live, and move, and have 
our being : as likewise by philosophy, because 
they are all in aU, and all in every part. Be- 
sides, said they, separate these two, and you 

^a play on the term "microcosm" {little world), 
applied to man by philosophers ^ assumptions 
^ from the original stock * Acts xvii : 28 



2^0 



JONATHAN SWIFT 



will find the body to be only a senseless un- 
savoury carcass. By all which it is manifest 
that the outward dress must needs be the soul. 

To this system of religion were tagged 
several subaltern doctrines, which were enter- 
tained with great vogue ; as particularly the 
faculties of the mind were deduced by the 
learned among them in this manner: em- 
broidery Avas sheer wit, gold fringe was agree- 
able conversation, gold lace was repartee, a 
huge long periwig was humour, and a coat full 
of powder^ was very good raillery. AU which 
required abundance of finesse and delicatesse 
to manage with advantage, as well as a strict 
observance after time and fashions. 

I have -with, much pains and reading col- 
lected out of ancient authors this short suia- 
mary of a body of philosophy and divinity 
which seems to have been composed by a vein 
and race of thinking very different from any 
other systems, either ancient or modern. And 
it was not merely to entertain or satisfy the 
reader's curiosity, but rather to give him light 
into several circumstances of the following 
story, that, knowing the state of dispositions 
and opinions in an age so remote, he may 
better comprehend those great events which 
were the issue of them. I advise, therefore, 
the courteous reader to peruse with a world of 
application, again and again, whatever I have 
written upon this matter. And so leaving 
these broken ends, I carefully gather up the 
chief thread of my story, and proceed. 

These opinions, therefore, were so universal, 
as well as the practices of them, among the 
refined part of court and town, that our three 
brother adventurers, as their circumstances 
then stood, were strangely at a loss. For, on 
the one side, the three ladies they addressed 
themselves to (whom we have named already) 
were ever at the very top of the fashion, and 
abhorred all that were below it but the breadth 
of a hair. On the other side, their father's 
will was very precise, and it was the main 
precept in it, with the greatest penalties an- 
nexed, not to add to or diminish from their 
coats one thread -Rdthout a positive command 
in the will. Now the coats their father had 
left them were, it is true, of very good cloth, 
and besides, so neatly sewn you would swear 
they were all of a piece, but, at the same time, 
very plain, with little or no ornament ; and it 
happened that before they were a month in 

^ Men of fashion powdered their hair. 



toMTi great shoulder-knots ^ came up . St raight 
aU the world was shoulder-knots ; no ap- 
proaching the ladies' ruelles ^ without the quota 
of shoulder-knots. "That fellow," cries one, 
"has no soul: where is his shoulder-knot?" 
Our three brethren soon discovered their 
want by sad experience, meeting in their 
walks with forty mortifications and indignities. 
If they went to the play-house, the door- 
keeper showed them into the twelve-penny 
gallery.^ If they called a boat, says a water- 
man, "I am first sculler."^ If they stepped 
into the "Rose" to take a bottle,^ the drawer 
would cry, "Friend, we sell no ale." If they 
went to visit a lady, a footman met them at 
the door with "Pray, send up your message." 
In this unhappy case they went immediately 
to consult their father's wiU, read it over and 
over, but not a word of the shoulder-knot. 
What should they do ? What temper should 
they find? Obedience was absolutely neces- 
sary, and yet shoulder-knots appeared ex- 
tremely requisite. After much thought, 
one of the brothers, who happened to be more 
book-learned than the other two, said he had 
found an expedient. "It is true," said he, 
"there is nothing here ia this will, totidem 
verbis,^ making mention of shoulder-knots, 
but I dare conjecture we miay find them in- 
clusive, or totidem syllabis." '' This distinction 
was immediately approved by aU. ; and so 
they fell again to examine the will. But their 
evil star had so directed the matter that the 
first syllable was not to be found in the whole 
writing ; upon which disappointment, he who 
found the former evasion took heart, and said, 
"Brothers, there is yet hopes; for though 
we cannot find them totidem verbis nor totidem 
syllabis, I dare engage we shall make them out 
tcrtio modo ^ or totidem Uteris." ^ This dis- 
covery was also higlily commended, upon 
which they fell once more to the scrutiny, and 
soon picked out S, H, O, U, L, D, E, R, when 
the same planet, enemy to then- repose, had 
wonderfully contrived that a K was not to 
be found. Here was a weighty difficulty ! 
But the distinguishing brother (for whom 
we shall hereafter find a name), now his hand 

^ knots of gold or silver lace ^ morning recepi- 
tions ^ Good seals cost two shillings and a half. 
■* Scullers were ■mtfasJilonable ; fashion demanded a 
"pair of oars." ^ of wine ® in exactly those words 
"^ in those very syllables * in a third way ^ in those 
very letters 



A TALE OF A TUB 



251 



was in, proved by a very good argument that 
K was a modern illegitimate letter, unknown 
to the learned ages, nor anywhere to be found 
in ancient manuscripts. "It is true," said 
he, "the word Calendae had in Q. V. C.^ been 
sometimes writ with a K, but erroneously, 
for in the best copies it is ever spelled with a 
C ; and by consequence it Vv^as a gross mistake 
in our language to spell 'knot with a K," 
but that from henceforward he would take 
care it should be writ with a C. Upon 
this all further difficulty vanished ; shoulder- 
knots were made clearly out to be jure 
patemo,^ and our three gentlemen swaggered 
with as large and as flaunting ones as the 
best. 

But as human happiness is of a very short 
duration, so in those days were human 
fashions, upon which it entirely depends. 
Shoulder-knots had their time, and we must 
now imagine them in their decline, for a cer- 
tain lord came just from Paris with fifty yards 
of gold lace upon his coat, exactly trimmed 
after the court fashion of that month. In two 
days all mankind appeared closed up in bars 
of gold lace. Whoever durst peep abroad 
without his complement of gold lace was as 

scandalous as a , and as ill received among 

the women. What should our three knights 
do in this momentous affair? They had 
sufficiently strained a point already in the 
affair of shoulder-knots. Upon recourse to the 
will, nothing appeared there but altum silen- 
tiiim? That of the shoulder-knots was a 
loose, fi>ing, circumstantial point, but this 
of gold lace seemed too considerable an al- 
teration ■Rdthout better warrant. It did ali- 
qtio modo esscntiae adhaerere* and therefore 
required a positive precept. But about this 
time it fell out that the learned brother afore- 
said had read "Aristotelis Dialectica,"^ and 
especially that wonderful piece de Interpre- 
tatione, which has the facultj' of teaching its 
readers to find out a meaning in everything 
but itself, like commentators on the Revela- 
tions, who proceed'' prophets without imder- 
standing a syllable of the text. "Brothers," 
said he, "you are to be informed that of wills, 
duo sunt genera,'' nuncupatory * and scriptory,^ 

* certain old Mss. * by paternal authority 
' absolute silence ^ it belonged in a manner to the 
essential meaning ^ Aristotle's treatise on reason- 
ing ^ set up as, undertake to be ^ there are two 
kinds ^ oral ^ written 



that in the scriptory wUl here before us there 
is no precept or mention about gold lace, 
conccditur,^ but si idem affirmetur de nuncu- 
patorio negatur? For, brothers, if you re- 
member, we heard a fellow say when we were 
boys that he heard my father's man say 
that he heard my father say that he would 
advise his sons to get gold lace on their coats 
as soon as ever they could procure money to 
buy it." "That is very true," cries the other. 
"I remember it perfectly well," said the third. 
And so, without more ado, they got the largest 
gold lace in the parish, and walked about as 
fine as lords. 

A while after, there came up all in fashion a 
pretty sort of flame-coloured satin for linings, 
and the mercer brought a pattern of it im- 
mediately to our three gentlemen. "And 
please your worships," said he, "my Lord 

C and Sir J. W. had linings out of this 

very piece last night ; it takes wonderfully, 
and I shall not have a remnant left enough to 
make my wife a pin-cushion by to-morrow 
morning at ten o'clock." Upon this they fell 
again to rummage the will, because the 
present case also required a positive precept, 
the lining being held by orthodox writers to 
be of the essence of the coat. After long 
search they could fix upon nothing to the 
matter in hand, except a short advice in their 
father's will to take care of fire and put 
out their candles before they went to sleep. 
This, though a good deal for the purpose, 
and helping very far towards self-conviction, 
yet not seeming whoUy of force to establish 
a command, and being resolved to avoid 
further scruple, as well as future occasion for 
scandal, says he that was the scholar, "I 
remember to have read in wills of a codicil an- 
nexed, which is indeed a part of the will, and 
what it contains hath equal authority with 
the rest. Now I have been considering of 
this same wUl here before us, and I cannot 
reckon it to be complete for want of such a 
codicil. I wUl therefore fasten one in its 
proper place very dexterously. I have had 
it by me some time ; it was written by a dog- 
keeper of my grandfather's, and talks a great 
deal, as good luck would have it, of this very 
flame-coloured satin." The project was im- 
mediately approved by the other two ; an 
old parchment scroll was tagged on according 

^ it is admitted ^ but if the same is aflSrmed of 
a nuncupatory will, we deny it. 



252 



JONATHAN SWIFT 



to art, in the form of a codicil annexed, and 
the satin bought and worn. 

Next winter a player, hired for the purpose 
by the Corporation of Fringemakers, acted his 
part in a new comedy, all covered with silver 
fringe, and according to the laudable custom 
gave rise to that fashion. Upon which the 
brothers, consulting their father's will, to their 
great astonishment found these words : "Item, 
I charge and command my said three sons to 
wear no sort of silver fringe upon or about 
their said coats," etc., with a penalty in case 
of disobedience too long here to insert. How- 
ever, after some pause, the brother so often 
mentioned for his erudition, who was well 
skilled in criticism, had found in a certain 
author, which he said should be nameless, 
that the same word which in the will is called 
fringe does also signify a broom-stick, and 
doubtless ought to have the same interpre- 
tation in this paragraph. This another of 
the brothers disliked, because of that epithet 
silver, which could not, he humbly conceived, 
in propriety of speech be reasonably applied to 
a broom-stick ; but it was replied upon him 
that this epithet was understood in a mytho- 
logical and allegorical sense. However, he 
objected again why their father should forbid 
them to wear a broom-stick on their coats, a 
caution that seemed unnatural and imperti- 
nent ; upon which he was taken up short, as 
one that spoke irreverently of a mystery 
which doubtless was very useful and signifi- 
cant, but ought not to be oVer-curiously pried 
into or nicely reasoned upon. And in short, 
their father's authority being now consider- 
ably sunk, this expedient was allowed to serve 
as a lawful dispensation for wearing their full 
proportion of silver fringe. 

A while after was revived an old fashion, 
long antiquated, of embroidery with Indian 
figures of men, women, and children. Here 
they had no occasion to examine the will. 
They remembered but too well how their 
father had always abhorred this fashion ; that 
he made several paragraphs on purpose, im- 
porting his utter detestation of it and bestow- 
ing his everlasting curse to his sons whenever 
they should wear it. For all this, in a few 
days they appeared higher in the fashion than 
anybody else in the town. But they solved 
the matter by saying that these figures were 
not at all the same with those that were 
formerly worn and were meant in the will ; 
besides, they did not wear them in that sense, 



as forbidden by their father, but as they were 
a commendable custom, and of great use to 
the public. That these rigorous clauses in the 
will did therefore require some allowance and 
a favourable interpretation, and ought to be 
understood cum grano salis} 

But fashions perpetually altering in that 
age, the scholastic brother grew weary of 
searching further evasions and solving ever- 
lasting contradictions. Resolved, therefore, 
at all hazards to comply with the modes of the 
world, they concerted matters together, and 
agreed unanimously to lock up their father's 
will in a strong-box, brought out of Greece or 
Italy (I have forgot which) , and trouble them- 
selves no farther to examine it, but only refer 
to its authority whenever they thought fit. 
In consequence whereof, a while after it grew 
a general mode to wear an infinite number of 
points,^ most of them tagged with silver ; upon 
which the scholar pronounced ex cathedra * 
that points were absolutely jure paterno,^ as 
they might very well remember. It is true, 
indeed, the fashion prescribed somewhat more 
than were directly named in the will ; how- 
ever, that they, as heirs-general of their father, 
had power to make and add certain clauses 
for public emolument, though not deducible 
todidem verbis from the letter of the will, or 
else multa ahsurda sequerentur.^ This was 
understood for canonical, and therefore on the 
following Sunday they came to church all 
covered with points. 

The learned brother so often mentioned 
was reckoned the best scholar in all that or 
the next street to it ; insomuch, as having run 
something behindhand with the world, he 
obtained the favour from a certain lord to 
receive him into his house and to teach his 
children. A while after the lord died, and he, 
by long practice upon his father's will, found 
the way of contriving a deed of conveyance of 
that house to himself and his heirs ; upon 
which he took possession, turned the young 
squires out, and received his brothers in their 
stead.® 

^ with a grain of salt ^ laces used instead of 
buttons to fasten clothing ^ officially ^ in accord- 
ance with paternal law ^ many absurd conse- 
quences would follow ^ For the symbolic mean- 
ings of the objects and events that figure in 
this satire, see the Notes at the end of this 
volume. 



A MODEST PROPOSAL 



253 



From A MODEST PROPOSAL FOR 
PREVENTING THE CHILDREN OF 
POOR PEOPLE IN IRELAND FROM 
BEING A BURDEN TO THEIR PAR- 
ENTS OR COUNTRY, AND FOR MAK- 
ING THEM BENEFICIAL TO THE 
PUBLIC 

It is a melancholy object to those who walk 
through this great town,^ or travel in the coun- 
try, when they see the streets, the roads, and 
cabin-doors, crowded with beggars of the 
female sex, followed by three, four, or six 
children, all m rags, and importuning every 
passenger- for an alms. These mothers, in- 
stead of being able to work for their honest 
livelihood, are forced to employ all their time 
in strolling to beg sustenance for their help- 
less infants : who, as they grow up, either turn 
thieves for want of work, or leave their dear 
native country to fight for the Pretender in 
Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.^ 

I think it is agreed by all parties, that this 
prodigious number of children in the arms, 
or on the backs, or at the heels of their 
mothers, and frequently of their fathers, is, 
in the present deplorable state of the kingdom, 
a very great additional grievance ; and, there- 
fore, whoever could find out a fair, cheap, 
and easy method of making these children 
sound, useful members of the commonwealth, 
would deserve so well of the public, as to have 
his statue set up for a preserver of the nation. 

But my intention is very far from being 
confined to provide only for the children of 
professed beggars ; it is of a much greater 
extent, and shall take in the whole number 
of infants at a certain age, who are born of 
parents in effect '' as little able to support them 
as those who demand our charity in the streets. 

As to my own part, having turned my 
thoughts for many years upon this important 
subject, and maturely weighed the several 
schemes of our projectors, I have always 
found them grossly mistaken in their compu- 
tation. It is true, a child, just born, may be 
supported by its mother's milk for a solar 
year, with little other nourishment ; at most, 
not above the value of two shillings, which 
the mother may certainly get, or the value in 

^ Dublin " passer-by ^ Many poor persons sold 
themselves to go as servants to the Barbadocs and 
other English colonies. * in reality 



scraps, by her lawful occupation of begging ; 
and it is exactly at one year old that I pro- 
pose to provide for them in such a manner, as, 
instead of being a charge upon their parents 
or the parish, or wanting food and raiment for 
the rest of their lives, they shall, on the con- 
trary, contribute to the feeding, and partly to 
the clothing, of many thousands. 



The number of soids in this kingdom being 
usually reckoned one million and a half, of 
these I calculate there may be about two hun- 
dred thousand couple whose wives are breed- 
ers ; from v/hich number I subtract thirty 
thousand couple, who are able to maintain 
their own children, (although I apprehend 
there cannot be so many, under the present 
distresses of the kingdom) ; but this being 
granted, there will remain a hundred and 
seventy thousand breeders. I again subtract 
fifty thousand, for those women who miscarry, 
or whose children die by accident or disease 
within the year. There only remain a hun- 
dred and twenty thousand children of poor 
parents annually born. The question there- 
fore is. How this number shall be reared and 
provided for? which, as I have already said, 
xmder the present situation of affairs, is 
utterly impossible by all the methods hitherto 
proposed. For vv^e can neither employ them 
in handicraft or agriculture ; we neither build 
houses (I mean in the country), nor cultivate 
land : they can very seldom pick up a liveli- 
hood by stealing, till they arrive at six years 
old, except where they are of towardly parts ;' 
although I confess they learn the rudim.ents 
much earlier; during which time they can, 
however, be properly looked upon only as 
probationers ; as I have been infomied by a 
principal gentleman in the county of Cavan, 
who protested to me, that he never knew 
above one or two instances under the age of 
six, even in a part of the kingdom so renowned 
for the quickest proficiency in that art. 

I am assured by our merchants, that a boy 
or a girl before twelve years old is no saleable 
commodity ; ^ and even when they come to this 
age they will not yield above three pounds or 
three pounds and half-a-crown at most, on 
the exchange ; which cannot turn to account 
either to the parents or kingdom, the charge 

^ precocious ability - Poor parents often sold 
their children as bondservants. 



254 



SIR RICHARD STEELE 



of nutriment and rags having been at least 
four times that value. 

I shall now, therefore, humbly propose my 
o^\Ti thoughts, v/hich I hope will not be Hable 
to the least objection. 

I have been assured by a very knowing 
American of my acquaintance in London, that 
a young healthy cliild, v/ell nursed, is, at a 
year old, a most delicious, nourishing, and 
wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, 
baked, or boiled ; and I make no doubt that 
it will equally serve in fricasee or a ragout. 

I do therefore humbly offer it to public con- 
sideration, that of the himdred and twenty 
thousand children already computed, twenty 
thousand may be reserved for breed. . . . 
That the remaining hundred thousand may, 
at a year old, be offered in sale to the 
persons of quality and fortune through the 
kingdom ; always advising the mother to let 
them suck plentifully in the last month, so as 
to render them plump and fat for a good table. 
A chUd will make two dishes at an entertain- 
ment for friends ; and when the family dines 
alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a 
reasonable dish, and, seasoned with a little 
pepper or salt, will be very good boiled on the 
fourth day, especially in winter. 

I have reckoned, upon a medium, that a 
child just born will weigh twelve pounds, and 
in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, will in- 
crease to twenty-eight pounds. 

I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and 
therefore very proper for landlords, who, as 
they have already devoured most of the 
parents, seem to have the best title to the 
children. 



I have already computed the charge of 
nursing a beggar's child (in which list I reckon 
all cottagers, labourers, and four-fifths of the 
farmers) to be about two shUiings per anmmi, 
rags included; and I believe no gentleman 
would repine to give ten shillings for the car- 
cass of a good fat chUd, which, as I have said, 
will make four dishes of excellent nutritive 
meat, when he has only some particular friend, 
or his own family, to dine with him. Thus 
the squire will learn to be a good landlord, 
and grow popular among his tenants ; the 
mother will have eight shillmgs net profit, 
and be fit for work till she produces another 
child. 

Those who are more thrifty (as I must con- 



fess the times require) may flay the carcass; 
the skin of which, artificially^ dressed, will 
make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer- 
boots for fine gentlemen. 

As to our city of Dublin, shambles may be 
appointed for this purpose in the most con- 
venient parts of it, and butchers we may be 
assured will not be wanting ; although I rather 
recommend buying the children alive, then 
dressing them hot from the knife, as we do 
roasting pigs. 



SIR RICHARD STEELE 

(1672-1729) 

THE TATLER 

NO. 95. NOVEMBER 17, 1709 

Interea didces pendent circtiin oscula nati, 
Casta ptidicitiam servat domns.^ 

— ViRG. Georg. ii. 523. 

There are several persons who have many 
pleasures and entertainments in their posses- 
sion, which they do not enjoy. It is, there- 
fore, a kind and good office to acquaint them 
mth their own happiness, and turn their 
attention to such instances of their good for- 
tune as they are apt to overlook. Persons in 
the married state often want such a monitor ; 
and pine away their days, by looking upon the 
same condition in anguish and murmur, 
which carries with it in the opinion of others a 
complication^ of all the pleasures of life, and 
a retreat from its inquietudes. 

I am led into this thought by a visit I made 
an old friend, who was formerly my school- 
fellow. He came to to'mi last week ^vith his 
family for the winter, and yesterday morning 
sent me word his wife expected me to dinner. 
I am, as it were, at home at that house, and 
every member of it knows me for. their weU- 
Avisher. I cannot indeed express the pleasure 
it is, to be met by the children with so much 
joy as I am when I go thither. The boys 
and girls strive who shall come first, when 
they think it is I that am knocking at the 
door ; and that child which loses the race to 

^ skilfully ^ Meanwhile his sweet children hang 
upon his kisses and his chaste home is the abode 
of virtue. ^ mixture 



THE TATLER 



255 



me runs back again to tell the father it is Mr. 
Bickerstaff. This day I was led in by a pretty 
girl, that we all thought must have forgot 
me ; for the family has been out of town these 
two years. Her knowing me again was a 
mighty subject with us, and took up our dis- 
course at the first entrance. After which, 
they began to rally ^ me upon a thousand little 
stories they heard in the country, about my 
marriage to one of m.y neighbour's daughters. 
Upon which the gentleman, my friend, said, 
"Nay, if Mr. Bickerstaff marries a cliild of 
any of his old companions, I hope mine shall 
have the preference ; there is Mrs. ]\Iary is 
now sixteen, and woiild make him as fine a 
widow as the best of them. But I know him 
too well ; he is so enamoured with the very 
memory of those who flourished in our youth, 
that he will not so much as look upon the 
modem beauties. I remember, old gentle- 
m.an, how often you went home in a day to 
refresh your countenance and dress when 
Teraminta reigned in your heart. As we 
came up in the coach, I repeated to my wife 
some of your verses on her." With such re- 
flections on Uttle passages 2 which happened 
long ago, we passed our time, during a cheer- 
ful and elegant meal. After dinner, his lady 
left the room, as did also the children. As 
soon as we were alone, he took me by the 
hand; "Well, my good friend," says he, "I 
am heartily glad to see thee ; I was afraid you 
would nevQr have seen all the company that 
dined with you to-day again. Do not you 
think the good woman of the house a little 
altered since you followed her from the play- 
house, to find out who she was, for me?" 
I perceived a tear fall dowm his cheek, as he 
spoke, which moved me not a little. But, to 
turn the discourse, I said, " She is not indeed 
quite that creature she was, when she returned 
me the letter I carried from you ; and told me, 
'she hoped, as I was a gentleman, I would be 
employed no more to trouble her, who had 
never offended me ; but would be so much the 
gentleman's friend, as to dissuade him from 
a pursuit, wliich he could never succeed in.' 
You may remember, I thought her in earnest ; 
and you were forced to employ your cousin 
Will, who made his sister get acquainted with 
her, for you. You cannot expect her to be for 
ever fifteen." "Fifteen!" replied my good 
friend : "Ah ! you little understand, you that 



have lived a bachelor, how great, how exqui- 
site a pleasure there is, in being really be- 
loved ! It is impossible, that the most beau- 
teous face in nature should raise in me such 
pleasing ideas, as when I look upon that excel- 
lent woman. That fading in her countenance 
is chiefly caused by her watching with me, in 
my fever. This was followed by a fit of sick- 
ness, which had like to have carried her off 
last winter. I tell you sincerely, I have so 
many obligations to her, that I cannot, with 
any sort of moderation, think of her present 
state of health. But as to what you say of 
fifteen, she gives me every day pleasures be- 
yond what I ever knew in the possession of her 
beauty, when I was in the vigour of youth. 
Every moment of her life brings me fresh in- 
stances of her complacency to my inclinations, 
and her prudence in regard to my fortune. 
Her face is to rrte much more beautiful than 
when I first saw it ; there is no decay in any 
feature, which I cannot trace, from the very 
instant it was occasioned by some anxious 
concern for my welfare and interests. Thus, 
at the same time, methinks, the love I con- 
ceived towards her for what she was, is height- 
ened by my gratitude for what she is. The 
love of a wife is as much above the idle passion 
commonly called by that name, as the loud 
laughter of buffoons is inferior to the elegant 
mirth of gentlemen. Oh ! she is an uieslima- 
ble jewel. In her examination of her house- 
hold affairs, she shows a certain fearfulness to 
find a fault, which makes her servants obey 
her like children ; and the meanest we have 
has an ingenuous shame for an offence, not 
always to be seen in children in other families. 
I speak freely to you, my old friend ; ever 
since her sickness, things that gave me the 
quickest joy before, turn now to a certain 
anxiety. As the children play in the next 
room, I know the poor things by their steps, 
and am considering what they must do, 
should they lose their mother in their tender 
years. The pleasure I used to take in telling 
my boy stories of battles, and asking my girl 
questions about the disposal of her baby,^ and 
the gossiping of it, is turned into inward re- 
flection and melanchol3^" 

He would have gone on in this tender way, 
when the good lady entered, and with an in- 
expressible sweetness in her countenance lold 
us, "she had been searching her closet for 



joke 



events 



•doll 



256 



SIR RICHARD STEELE 



something very good, to treat such an old 
friend as I was." Her husband's eyes 
sparkled with pleasure at the cheerfulness of 
her coimtenance ; and I saw all his fears van- 
ish in an instant. The lady observing some- 
thing in our looks which showed we had been 
more serious than ordinary, and seeing her 
husband receive her with great concern under 
a forced cheerfulness, immediately guessed at 
what we had been talking of; and applying 
herself to me, said, with a smUe, "Mr. 
Bickerstaff, do not believe a word of what he 
tells you, I shall still live to have you for my 
second, as I have often promised you, unless 
he takes more care of himself than he has 
done since his coming to town. You must 
know, he tells me that he finds London is a 
much more healthy place than the country; 
for he sees several of his old acquaintance 
and school-fellows are here" young fellows 
with fair full-bottomed periwigs.^ I could 
scarce keep him in this morning from going 
out open-breasted." ^ My friend, who is 
always extremely delighted with her agreeable 
humour, made her sit down with us. She 
did it with that easiness which is peculiar to 
women of sense ; and to keep up the good 
humour she had brought in with her, turned 
her raillery upon me. "Mr. Bickerstaff, you 
remember you followed me one night from the 
play-house ; suppose you should carry me 
thither to-morrow night, and lead me into the 
front box." This put us into a long field of 
discourse about the beauties, who were 
mothers to the present, and shined in the 
boxes twenty years ago. I told her, "I was 
glad she had transferred so many of her 
charms, and I did not question but her eldest 
daughter was within half-a-year of being a 
toast." 

We were pleasing ourselves with this fan- 
tastical preferment of the yoimg lady, when on 
a sudden we were alarmed with the noise of a 
drum, and immediately entered my little god- 
son to give me a point of war.^ His mother, 
between laughing and chiding, would have put 
him out of the room; but I would not part 
with him so. I found, upon conversation 
with him, though he was a little noisy in his 
mirth, that the child had excellent parts,"* and 
was a great master of all the learning on the 

^ such as only young men wore ^ with his 
coat unbuttoned, like a young gallant ^ a signal 
on a drum or trumpet * abilities 



other side eight years old. I perceived him 
a very great historian in yEsop's Fables : but 
he frankly declared to me his mind, "that 
he did not delight in that learning, because he 
did not beheve they were true;" for which 
reason I found he had very much turned his 
studies, for about a twelvemonth past, into 
the hves and adventures of Don Belianis of 
Greece,^ Guy of Warwick,^ the Seven Cham- 
pions,^ and other historians of that age. I 
could not but observe the satisfaction the 
father took in the forwardness of his son ; and 
that these diversions might turn to some 
profit, I found the boy had made remarks, 
which might be of service to him during the 
course of his whole life. He would tell you 
the mismanagements of John ffickerthrift,* 
find fault with the passionate temper in Bevis 
of Southampton,^ and loved St. George for 
being the champion of England ; ^ and by this 
means had his thoughts insensibly moiilded 
into the notions of discretion, virtue, and 
honour. I was extoUing his accomplishments, 
when the mother told me, that the little girl 
who led me in this morning was in her way a 
better scholar than he. "Betty," said she, 
"deals chiefly in fairies and sprights; and 
sometimes in a winter-night will terrify the 
maids with her accounts, untU they are 
afraid to go up to bed." 

I sat with them untU it was very late, some- 
times in merry, sometimes in serious discourse, 
with this particular pleasure, whicji gives the 
only true relish to all conversation, a sense 
that every one of us liked each other. I went 
home, considering the dift'erent conditions of a 
married life and that of a bachelor; and I 
must confess it struck me with a secret con- 
cern, to reflect, that whenever I go off I shall 
leave no traces behind me. In this pensive 
mood I returned to my family ; that is to say, 
to my maid, my dog, and my cat, who only 
can be the better or worse for what happens 
to me. 

^hero of a Spanish romance translated into 
English in 1598 -a legendary English hero, who 
killed a giant ^ St. George of England, St. Andrew 
of Scotland, St. Patrick of Ireland, St. David of 
Wales, etc. ■* a nursery-tale hero, like Jack the 
Giant Killer ^hero of a verj'- popular semi- 
religious mediasval romance. * These heroes of 
the earlier romances had become in the eighteenth 
century the subjects of chap-books for children 
and the common people. 



THE TATLER 



257 



THE TATLER 

NO. 167. MAY 4, 1710 

Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurcs, 

Quam quae sunt oculis subtnissa Jidelibus^ — HoR. 

From my own Apartment, May 2. 

Having received notice, that the famous 
actor, Mr. Betterton, was to be interred this 
evening in the cloisters near Westminster 
Abbey, I was resolved to walk thither, and 
See the last office done to a man whom I had 
always very much admired, and from whose 
action I had received more strong impressions 
of what is great and noble in human nature, 
than from the arguments of the most solid 
philosophers, or the descriptions of the most 
charming poets I had ever read. As the rude 
and untaught multitude are no way wrought 
upon more effectually than by seeing public 
pimishments and executions ; so men of 
letters and education feel their humanity 
most forcibly exercised, when they attend the 
obsequies of men who had arrived at any per- 
fection in liberal accomplishments. Theatri- 
cal action is to be esteemed as such, except 
it be objected, that we cannot call that an 
art which cannot be attained by art. Voice, 
stature, motion, and other gifts, must be very 
bountifully bestowed by nature, or labour 
and industry wdll but push the unhappy en- 
deavourer in that way, the farther off his 
wishes. 

Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be 
recorded with the same respect as Roscius 
among the Romans. The greatest orator has 
thought fit to ciuote his judgment, and cele- 
brate his life. Roscius was the example to all 
that would form themselves into proper and 
winning behaviour. His action was so well 
adapted to the sentiments he expressed, that 
the youth of Rome thought they only wanted 
to be virtuous to be as graceful in their ap- 
pearance as Roscius. The imagination took 
a lovel}' impression of what was great and 
good ; and they who never thought of setting 
up for the art of imitation, became themselves 
inimitable characters. 

There is no human invention so aptly 
calculated for the forming a free-born people 
as that of a theatre. Tully reports, that the 

^ Things told move us less than those seen by 
our own faithful eyes. 



celebrated player of whom I am speaking, used 
frequently to say, "The perfection of an 
actor is only to become what he is doing." 
Young men, who are too inattentive to re- 
ceive lectures, are irresistibly taken with per- 
formances. Hence it is, that I extremely 
lament the little relish the gentry of this 
nation have at present for the just and noble 
representations in some of our tragedies. The 
operas, which are of late introduced, can 
leave no trace behind them that can be of 
service beyond the present moment. To 
sing and to dance, are accomplishments very 
few have any thoughts of practising ; but to 
speak justly, and move gracefully, is what 
every man thinks he does perform, or wishes 
he did. 

I have hardly a notion, that any performer 
of antiquity could surpass the action of Mr. 
Betterton in any of the occasions in which he 
has appeared on our stage. The wonderful 
agony which he appeared in, when he exam- 
ined the circumstance of the handkerchief in 
Othello ; the mixture of love that intruded 
upon his mind, upon the innocent answers 
Desdemona makes, betrayed in his gesture 
such a variety and vicissitude of passions, as 
would admonish a man to be afraid of his own 
heart, and perfectly convince him, that it is 
to stab it, to admit that worst of daggers, 
jealousy. Whoever reads in his closet^ this 
admirable scene, will find that he cannot, 
except he has as warm an imagination as 
Shakespeare himself, find any but dry, inco- 
herent, and broken sentences: but a reader 
that has seen Betterton act it, observes there 
could not be a word added; that longer 
speeches had been unnatural, nay, impossible, 
in Othello's circumstances. The charming 
passage in the same tragedy, where he tells, 
the manner of winning the affection of his 
mistress, was urged with so moving and grace- 
ful an energy, that while I walked in the Clois- 
ters, I thought of him with the same concern 
as if I waited for the remains of a person who 
had in real life done all that I had seen him 
represent. The gloom of the place, and faint 
lights before the ceremony appeared, contrib- 
uted to the melancholy disposition I was in ; 
and I began to be extremely afflicted, that 
Brutus and Cassius had any difference ; that 
Hotspur's gallantry was so unfortunate ; and 
that the mirth and good humour of Falstaff 

^ private room 



258 



SIR RICHARD STEELE 



could not exempt him from the grave. Nay, 
this occasion in me, who look upon the dis- 
tinctions amongst men to be merely scenical, 
raised reflections upon the emptiness of all 
human perfection and greatness in general; 
and I could not but regret, that the sacred 
heads which lie buried in the neighbourhood of 
this httle portion of earth in which my poor 
old friend is deposited, are returned to dust as 
well as he, and that there is no difference in 
the grave between the imaginary and the real 
monarch. This made me say of human life 
itseh with Macbeth : 

To-morrow, to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in a stealing pace from day to day, 
To the last moment of recorded time ! 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
To the eternal night ! Out, out, short candle I 
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage. 
And then is heard no more. 

The mention I have here made of Mr. 
Betterton, for whom I had, as long as I have 
known anything, a very great esteem and 
gratitude for the pleasure he gave me, can do 
him no good ; but it may possibly be of ser- 
vice to the unhappy woman he has left behind 
him, to have it known, that this great trage- 
dian was never in a scene half so moving, as 
the circumstances of his affairs created at his 
departure. His wife after the cohabitation of 
forty years in the strictest amity, has long 
pined away with a sense of his decay, as well 
in his person as his little fortune ; and, in 
proportion to that, she has herself decayed 
both in her health and reason. Her husband's 
death, added to her age and infirmities, vrould 
certainly have determined ^ her life, but that 
.the greatness of her distress has been her 
reHef, by a present deprivation of her senses. 
This absence of reason is her best defence 
against sorrow, poverty, and sickness. I 
dwell upon this account so distinctly, in obedi- 
ence to a certain great spirit, who hides her 
name, and has by letter applied to me to 
recommend to her some object of compassion, 
from whom she may be concealed. 

This, I think, is a proper occasion for exert- 
ing such heroic generosity ; and as there is an 
ingenuous shame in those who have known 
better fortune to be reduced to receive obliga- 
tions, as well as a becoming pain in the truly 

^ ended 



generous to receive thanks ; in this case both 
these delicacies are preserved ; for the person 
obliged is as incapable of knowing her bene- 
factress, as her benefactress is imwiUing to be 
known by her. 



THE TATLER 

NO. 264. DECEMBER 16, 1710 

Faveie Unguis.^ ■ — Hor. Od. iii. 2. 2. 

Boccalini,^ in his "Parnassus," indicts a la- 
conic writer for speaking that in three words 
which he might have said in two, and sen- 
tences him for his punishment to read over all 
the words of Guicciardini.^ This Guicciardini 
is so very prolix and circumstantial in his 
writings, that I remember our countryman. 
Doctor Donne, speaking of that majestic and 
concise manner in which Moses has described 
the creation of the world, adds, " that if such 
an author as Guicciardini were to have written 
on such a subject, the world itself would not 
have been able to have contained the books 
that gave the history of its creation." 

I look upon a tedious talker, or what is 
generally known by the name of a story-teller, 
to be much more insufferable than even a 
prolix writer. An author may be tossed out 
of i^our hand, and thrown aside when he grows 
dull and tiresome; but such liberties are so 
far from being allowed towards your orators 
in common conversation, that I. have known 
a challenge sent a person for going out of the 
room abruptly, and leaving a man of honour 
in the midst of a dissertation. This evil is at 
present so very common and epidemical, that 
there is scarce a coffee-house ■* in town that has 
not some speakers belonging to it, who utter 
their political essays, and draw parallels out 
of Baker's " Chronicle" ^ to almost every part 
of her majesty's reign. It was said of two 
ancient authors, who had very different 
beauties in their style, "that if you took a 
word from one of them, you onlj' spoiled his 
eloquence ; but if you took a Avord from the 
other, you spoiled his sense." I have often 
applied the first part of this criticism to sev- 
eral of these coffee-house speakers whom I 

* Spare speech ^ an Italian critic, who wrote 
in 1612 ^ an Italian historian of the sixteenth 
century * See Macaulay's account, p. 516. ^ an 
old-fashioned history of England, pub. 1641 



THE TATLER 



259 



have at present in my thoughts, though the 
character that is given to the last of those 
authors, is what I would recommend to the 
imitation of m}'' loving countrymen. But it 
is not only public places of resort, but private 
clubs and conversations over a bottle, that are 
infested with this loquacious kind of animal, 
especially with that species which I compre- 
hend under the name of a story-teller. I 
would earnestly desire these gentlemen to 
consider, that no point of wit or mirth at the 
end of a story can atone for the half hour that 
has been lost before they come at it. I would 
likewise lay it home to their serious consider- 
ation, whether they think that every man in 
the company has not a right to speak as well as 
themselves? and whether they do not think 
they are invading another man's property, 
when they engross the time which should be 
divided equally among the company to their 
own private use? 

W'Tiat makes this evil the much greater in 
conversation is, that these hiimdrum com- 
panions seldom endeavour to vdnd up their 
narrations into a point of mirth or instruction, 
which might make some amends for the 
tediousness of them ; but tliink they have a 
right to tell anything that has happened with- 
in their memory. They look upon matter of 
fact to be a sufficient foundation for a story, 
and give us a long account of things, not be- 
cause they are entertaining or surprising, but 
because they are true. 

jMy ingenious kinsman, Mr. Humphry 
\Vagstaff, used to say, "the life of man is too 
short for a story-teller." 

T^Iethusalem might be half an hoiu in tell- 
ing what o'clock it was: but as for us post- 
diluvians, we ought to do everr-thing in haste ; 
and in our speeches, as well as actions, remem- 
ber that our time is short. A man that talks 
for a quarter of an hour together in company, 
if I meet him frequently, takes up a great part 
of my span. A quarter of an hour may be 
reckoned the eight-and-fortieth part of a day, 
a day the three hundred and sixtieth part of a 
year, and a year the threescore and tenth part 
of life. By this moral arithmetic, supposing a 
man to be in the talking world one third part 
of the day, whoever gives another a quarter of 
an hour's hearing, makes him a sacrifice of 
more than the four hundred thousandth part 
of his conversable hfe. 

I would establish but one great general rule 
to be observed in all conversation, which is 



this, "that men should not talk to please 
themselves, but those that hear them." This 
would make them consider, whether what 
they speak be worth hearing ; whether there 
be either wit or sense in what they are about 
to say ; and, whether it be adapted to the 
time when, the place where, and the person to 
whom, it is spoken. 

For the utter extirpation of these orators 
and story-tellers, which I look upon as very 
great pests of society, I have invented a watch 
which divides the minute mto twelve parts, 
after the same manner that the ordinary 
watches are divided into hours : and will en- 
deavour to get a patent,^ which shall oblige 
every club or company to provide themselves 
with one of these watches, that shall lie upon 
the table as an hour-glass is often placed near 
the pulpit, to measure out the length of a 
discourse. 

I shall be willing to allow a man one round 
of my watch, that is, a whole minute, to speak 
in ; but if he exceeds that time, it shall be 
lawful for any of the company to look upon 
the watch, or to call him down to order. 

Provided, hovi'ever, that if any one can 
make it appear he is turned of threescore, he 
may take two, or, if he pleases, three rounds 
of the watch without giving offence. Pro- 
vided, also, that this rule be not construed to 
extend to the fair sex, who shall still be at 
Uberty to talk by the ordinarj^ watch that is 
now in use. I would likewise earnestly recom- 
mend this little automaton, which may be 
easily carried in the pocket mthout any in- 
cumbrance, to all such as are troubled with 
this infirmity of speech, that\ipon pulling out 
their watches, they may have frequent occa- 
sion to consider what they are doing, and by 
that means cut the thread of the stor)' short, 
and hurry to a conclusion. I shall only add, 
that this watch, with a paper of directions 
how to use it, is sold at Charles Lillie's. 

I am afraid a Tatler will be thought a very 
improper paper to censure this humour of 
being talkative ; but I would have my readers 
know that there is a great difference between 
tattle and loquacity, as I shall show at large in a 
following lucubration ; it being my design to 
throw away a candle - upon that subject, in 
order to explain the whole art of tattling in 
all its branches and subdi\dsions. . 

^ a royal order - i.e. bum it in composing an 
essay 



26o 



SIR RICHARD STEELE 



THE SPECTATOR 

NO. II. MARCH 13, 1711 

Dat veniam corvis, vexat censura coliimhas} 
— Juv. Sat. ii. 63. 

Arietta is visited by all persons of both 
sexes, who have any pretence to wit and 
gallantry. She is in that time of life which is 
neither affected with the follies of youth, nor 
infirmities of age ; and her conversation is so 
mixed with gaiety and prudence, that she is 
agreeable both to the young and the old. 
Her behaviour is very frank, without being in 
the least blameable : and as she is out of the 
track of any amorous or ambitious pursuits 
of her own, her visitants entertain her with 
accounts of themselves very freely, whether 
they concern their passions or their interests. 
I made her a visit this afternoon, having been 
formerly introduced to the honour of her 
acquaintance by my friend Will Honeycomb, 
who has prevailed upon her to admit me 
sometimes into her assembly, as a civil in- 
offensive man. I found her accompanied with 
one person only, a common-place talker, who, 
upon my entrance, arose, and after a very 
slight civility sat down again ; then, turning to 
Arietta, pursued his discourse, which I found 
was upon the old topic of constancy in love. 
He went on with great facility in repeating 
what he talks every day of his life ; and with 
the ornaments of insignificant laughs and 
gestures, enforced his arguments by quota- 
tions out of plays and songs, which allude to 
the perjuries of the fair, and the general levity 
of women. Methought he strove to shine 
more than ordinarily in his talkative way, 
that he might insult my silence, and distin- 
guish himself before a woman of Arietta's 
taste, and understanding. She had often an 
inclination to interrupt him, but could find no 
opportunity, till the larum ceased of itself, 
which it did not till he had repeated and mur- 
dered the celebrated story of the Ephesian 
Matron.2 

Arietta seemed to regard this piece of 
raillery as an outrage done to her sex ; as in- 
deed I have always observed that women, 
whether out of a nicer regard to their honour, 
or what other reason I cannot tell, are more 

^ Censure spares the crows and attacks the 
doves. - A story of an easily consoled widow, told 
by Pctronius, a Latin writer of the first century. 



sensibly touched with those general aspersions 
which are cast upon their sex, than men are 
by what is said of theirs. 

When she had a little recovered herself from 
the serious anger she was in, she replied in the 
following manner : 

"Sir, when I consider how perfectly new all 
you have said on this subject is, and that the 
story you have given us is not quite two thou- 
sand years old, I cannot but think it a piece 
of presumption to dispute it with you ; but 
your quotations put me in mind of the fable 
of the lion and the man. The man walking 
with that noble animal, showed him, in the 
ostentation of human superiority, a sign of a 
man killing a lion. Upon which, the lion said 
very justly, 'We lions are none of us painters, 
else we could show a hundred men killed by 
lions for one lion killed by a man.' You men 
are writers, and can represent us women as 
unbecoming as you please in your works, 
while we are unable to return the injury. 
You have twice or thrice observed in your dis- 
course, that hypocrisy is the very foundation 
of our education ; and that an ability to dis- 
semble our affections is a professed part of 
our breeding. These and such other reflec- 
tions are sprinkled up and down the writings 
of all ages, by authors, who leave behind them 
memorials of their resentment against the 
scorn of particular women, in invectives 
against the whole sex. Such a writer, I 
doubt not, was the celebrated Petronius, who 
invented the pleasant aggravations of the 
frailty of the Ephesian lady ; but when we 
consider this question between the sexes, 
which has been either a point of dispute or 
raillery ever since there were men and women, 
let us take facts from plain people, and from 
such as have not either ambition or capacity 
to embellish their narrations with any 
beauties of imagination. I was the other day 
amusing myself with Ligon's Account of 
Barbadoes;^ and, in answer to your well- 
wrought tale, I will give you, (as it dwells 
upon my memory) out of that honest traveller, 
in his fifty-fifth page, the history of Inkle and 
Yarico. 

"'Mr. Thomas Inkle, of London, aged 
twenty years, embarked in the Downs,- on the 
good ship called the Achilles, bound for the 
West Indies, on the i6th of June, 1647, in 

* pub. 1657 2 a roadstead for ships oS the east 
coast of Kent 



THE SPECTATOR 



261 



order to improve his fortune by trade and 
merchandise. Our adventurer was the third 
son of an eminent citizen, who had taken 
particular care to instil into his mind an early- 
love of gain, by making him a perfect master 
of numbers,^ and consequently giving him a 
quick view of loss and advantage, and pre- 
venting the natural impulses of his passions, 
by prepossession towards his interests. With 
a mind thus turned, young Inkle had a per- 
. son every way agreeable, a ruddy vigour in his 
countenance, strength in his limbs, with ring- 
lets of fair hair loosely flowing on his shoulders. 
It happened, in the course of the voyage, that 
the Achilles, in some distress, put into a 
creek on the main ^ of America, in search of 
provisions. The youth, who is the hero of my 
story, among others went on shore on this 
occasion. From their first landing they were 
observed by a party of Indians, who hid them- 
selves in the woods for that purpose. The 
English unadvisedly marched a great distance 
from the shore into the country, and were in- 
tercepted by the natives, who slew the greatest 
number of them. Our adventurer escaped 
among others, by flying into a forest. Upon 
his coming into a remote and pathless part of 
the wood, he threw himself, tired and breath- 
less, on a little hillock, when an Indian maid 
rushed from a thicket behind him. After the 
first surprise they appeared mutually agree- 
able to each other. If the European was 
highly charmed with the limbs, features, and 
wild graces of the naked American ; the 
American was no less taken with the dress, 
complexion, and shape of an European, cov- 
ered from head to foot. The Indian grew 
immediately enamoured of him, and conse- 
quently solicitous for his preservation. She 
therefore conveyed him to a cave, where she 
gave him a delicious repast of fruits, and led 
him to a stream to slake his thirst. In the 
midst of these good offices, she would some- 
times play with his hair, and delight in the 
opposition of its colour to that of her fingers ; 
then open his bosom, then laugh at him for 
covering it. She was, it seems, a person of 
distinction, for she every day came to him in 
a diff'erent dress, of the most beautiful shells, 
bugles,^ and bredes."* She likewise brought 
him a great many spoils, which her other lovers 
had presented to her, so that his cave was 
richly adorned with all the spotted skins of 

^ arithmetic - mainland ^ beads ■* braided work 



beasts, and most parti-coloured feathers of 
fowls, which that world afforded. To make 
his confinement more tolerable, she would 
carry him in the dusk of the evening, or by the 
favour of moonlight, to unfrequented groves 
and solitudes, and show him where to he down 
in safety, and sleep amidst the falls of waters 
and melody of nightingales. Her part was to 
watch and hold him awake in her arms, for 
fear of her countrymen, and wake him on 
occasions to consult his safety. In this man- 
ner did the lovers pass away their time, till 
they had learned a language of their own, in 
which the voyager communicated to his mis- 
tress how happy he should be to have her in 
his country, where she should be clothed in 
such silks as his waistcoat was made of, and 
be carried in houses drawn by horses, without 
being exposed to wind or weather. All this 
he promised her the enjoyment of, without 
such fears and alarms as they were there tor- 
mented with. In this tender correspondence 
these lovers lived for several months, when 
Yarico, instructed by her lover, discovered a 
vessel on the coast, to which she made signals ; 
and in the night, with the utmost joy and 
satisfaction, accompanied him to a ship's 
crew of his countrymen bound to Barbadoes. 
When a vessel from the main arrives in that 
island, it seems the planters come down to the 
shore, where there is an immediate market of 
the Indians and other slaves, as with us of 
horses and oxen. 

'"To be short, Mr. Thomas Inkle, now 
coming into English territories, began se- 
riously to reflect upon his loss of time, and to 
weigh with himself how many days' interest of 
his money he had lost during his stay with 
Yarico. This thought made the young man 
very pensive, and careful what account he 
should be able to give his friends of his voyage. 
Upon which consideration, the prudent and 
frugal young man sold Yarico to a Barbadian 
merchant; notwithstanding that the poor 
girl, to incline him to commiserate her condi- 
tion, told him that she was with child by him : 
but he only made use of that information, to 
rise in his demands upon the purchaser.'" 

I was so touched with this story (which I 
think should be always a counterpart to the 
Ephesian Matron) that I left the room with 
tears in my eyes, which a woman of Arietta's 
good sense did, I am sure, take for greater 
applause than any complunents I could make 
her. 



262 



JOSEPH ADDISON 



JOSEPH ADDISON (16 7 2-1 7 19) 

From THE CAMPAIGN, A POEM TO 

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF 

MARLBOROUGH 

But, O my muse, what numbers wilt thou 
find 
To sing the furious troops in battle joined ! 
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous 

sound 
The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, 
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies. 
And all the thunder of the battle rise ! 
'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul 

was proved. 
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved. 
Amidst confusion, -horror, and despair, 281 
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war ; 
In peaceful thought the field of death sur- 
veyed, 
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid. 
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage. 
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
So when an angel by divine command 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,^ 
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; 
And, pleased the Almighty's orders to per- 
form, 291 
Rides in the whirlwmd, and directs the storm. 
But see the haughty household-troops ^ ad- 
vance ! 
The dread of Europe, and the pride of France. 
The war's whole art each private soldier 

knows. 
And with a general's love of conquest glows ; 
Proudly he marches on, and, void of fear, 
Laughs at the shaking of the British spear : 
Vain insolence ! with native freedom brave. 
The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave. 

HYMN 

The spacious firmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shming frame, 

Their great Original proclaim. 

Th' unwearied Sun from day to day 5 

Does his Creator's power display ; 

^ in November, 1703 * the royal guard of 
France 



And publishes to every land 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 

The Moon takes up the wondrous tale ; 10 

And nightly to the listening Earth 

Repeats the story of her birth : 

Whilst all the stars that roimd her burn, 

And all the planets in their turn. 

Confirm the tidings as they roll, 15 

And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though in solemn silence all 

Move round the dark terrestrial ball ; 

What though no real voice nor sound 

Amidst their radiant orbs be found? 20 

In Reason's ear they aU rejoice. 

And utter forth a glorious voice ; 

Forever singing as they shine, 

"The Hand that made us is divine." ■ 



THE SPECTATOR 

NO. 10. MONDAY, MARCH 12, 17 11 

Noil aliter quam qui adverse vix flumme lenibum 

Remigiis suhigit : si hrachia forte remisit, 

Atqtie ilium in praeceps prono rapit alveus amni.^ 

— ViRG. 

It is with much satisfaction that I hear this 
great city mquiring day by day after these my 
papers, and receiving my morning lectures 
with a becoming seriousness and attention. 
My pubHsher tells me, that there are already 
three thousand of them distributed every day : 
So that if I allow twenty readers to every 
paper, which I look upon as a modest compu- 
tation, I may reckon about threescore thou- 
sand disciples in London and Westminster, 
who I hope will take care to distinguish them- 
selves from the thoughtless herd of their 
ignorant and unattentive brethren. Since I 
have raised to myself so great an audience, I 
shall spare no pains to make their instinct ion 
agreeable, and their diversion useful. For 
which reasons I shall endeavour to enliven 
morality with wit, and to temper wit with 
morality, that my readers may, if possible, 

^ So the boat's brawny crew the current stem. 
And, slow advancing, struggle with the stream ; 
But if they slack their hands or cease to stri\-e, 
Then down the flood with headlong haste they 
drive. — Dryden. 



THE SPECTATOR 



563 



both ways find their account in the specula- 
tion of the day. And to the end that their 
virtue and discretion may not be short, tran- 
sient, intermitting starts of thoughts, I have 
resolved to refresh their memories from day 
to day, till I have recovered them out of that 
desperate state of vice and folly into which 
the age is fallen. The mind that hes fallow 
but a single day, sprouts up in folhes that are 
only to be killed by a constant and assiduous 
culture. It was said of Socrates, that he 
brought philosophy down from heaven, to 
inhabit among men ; and I shall be ambitious 
to have it said of me, that I have brought 
philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools 
and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, 
at tea-tables and in coffee-houses. 

I would therefore in a very particular 
manner recommend these my speculations to 
all well-regulated families, that set apart an 
hour in every mornmg for tea and bread and 
butter ; and would earnestly advise them for 
their good to order this paper to be punctually 
served up, and to be looked upon as a part of 
the tea eqmpage. 

Sir Francis Bacon observes, that a well- 
written book, compared with its rivals and 
antagonists, is like Moses's serpent, that im- 
m^ediately swallowed up and devoured those 
of the Egyptians. I shall not be so vain as to 
think, that where the Spectator appears, the 
other pubHc prints will vanish ; But shall 
leave it to my reader's consideration, whether. 
Is it not much better to be let into the knowl- 
edge of one's self, than to hear what passes 
in JMuscoxy or Poland ; and to amuse om-- 
selves with such writings as tend to the wear- 
ing out of ignorance, passion, and prejudice, 
than such as naturally conduce to inflame 
hatreds, and make enmities irreconcilable ? 

In the next place, I would recommend this 
paper to the daily perusal of those gentlemen 
whom I cannot but consider as my good 
brothers and allies, I mean the fraternity of 
Spectators, who live in the world without 
having anything to do in it ; and cither by the 
affluence of their fortunes, or laziness of their 
dispositions, have no other business with the 
rest of mankind, but to look upon them. Un- 
der this class of men are comprehended all 
contemplative tradesmen,^ titular physicians,^ 
Fellows of the Royal-society,^ Templars * that 

^ retired merchants ^ physicians who do not 
practice ^ dilettante scientists * lawyers 



are not given to be contentious, and statesmen 
that are out of business ; in short, every one 
that considers the world as a theatre, and de- 
sires to form a right judgment of those who 
are the actors on it. 

There is another set of men that I must like- 
wise lay a claim to, whom I have lately called 
the blanks of society, as being altogether un- 
furnished with ideas, till the business and con- 
versation of the day has supplied them. I 
have often considered these poor souls with an 
eye of great commiseration, when I have 
heard them asking the first man they have 
met with, whether there was any news stirring? 
and by that means gathering together mate- 
rials for thinking. These needy persons do 
not know what to talk of, tiU about twelve 
a clock in the morning ; for by that time they 
are pretty good judges of the weather, know 
which way the wind sits, and whether the 
Dutch mail be come in. As they lie at the 
mercy of the first man they meet, and are 
grave or impertinent all the day long, accord- 
ing to the notions which they have imbibed 
in the morning, I would earnestly entreat 
them not to stir out of their chambers tiU . 
they have read this paper, and do promise 
them that I will daily instil into them such 
sound and wholesome sentiments, as shall 
have a good effect on their conversation for 
the ensuing twelve horn's. 

But there are none to whom this paper will 
be more useful, than to the female world. I 
have often thought there has not been suffi- 
cient pains taken in finding out proper em- 
ployments and diversions for the fair ones. 
Their amusements seem contrived for them, 
rather as they are women, than as they are 
reasonable creatures ; and are more adapted 
to the sex than to the species. The toilet is 
their great scene of business, and the right 
adjusting of their hair the principal employ- 
ment of their lives. The sorting of a suit of 
ribbons is reckoned a very good morning's 
work ; and if they make an excursion to a 
mercer's or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue 
makes them unfit for any thing else all the 
day after. Their more serious occupations 
are sewing and embroidery, and their greatest 
drudgery the preparation of jellies and sweet- 
meats. This, I sa3', is the state of ordinary 
women ; though I know there are multitudes 
of those of a more elevated life and conversa- 
tion, that move in an exalted sphere of knowl- 
edge and virtue, that join all the beauties of 



264 



JOSEPH ADDISON 



the mind to the ornaments of dress, and inspire 
a kind of awe and respect, as well as love, 
into their male beholders. I hope to encrease 
the number of these by publishing this daily 
paper, which I shall always endeavour to 
make an innocent if not an improving enter- 
tainment, and by that means at least divert 
the minds of my female readers from greater 
trifles. At the same time, as I would fain 
give some finishing touches to those which 
are already the most beautifid pieces in human 
nature, I shaU endeavour to point out all those 
imperfections that are the blemishes, as weU 
as those virtues which are the embellishments 
of the sex. In the meanwhUe I hope these my 
gentle readers, who have so much time on 
their hands, will not grudge throwing away a 
quarter of an hour in a day on this paper, since 
they may do it without any hindrance to busi- 
ness. 

I know several of my friends and well- 
wishers are in great pain for me, lest I should 
not be able to keep up the spirit of a paper 
which I oblige myself to furnish every day: 
But to make them easy in this particular, I 
will promise them faithfuUy to give it over as 
soon as I grow dull. This I know wih be 
matter of great raillery to the smaU Wits ; who 
will frequently put me in mind of my prom- 
ise, desire me to keep my word, assure me 
that it is high time to give over, with many 
other little pleasantries of the like nature, 
which men of a little smart genius cannot 
forbear throwing out against their best friends, 
when they have such a handle given them of 
being witty. But let them remember that I 
do hereby enter my caveat against this piece 
of raillery. 

THOUGHTS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
NO. 26. FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 1711 

Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas 

Regumque turres, beate Sexii. 
Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam, 

Jam te premet nox, fabulaeque mattes, 
El domus exilis Plutonia} 

— HoR. i. Od. iv. 13. 

1 With equal foot, rich friend, impartial fate 
Knocks at the cottage, and the palace gate : 
Life's span forbids thee to extend thy cares. 
And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years : 
Night soon will seize, and you must quickly go 
To story'd ghosts, and Pluto's house below. 



When I am in a serious humour, I very often 
walk by myself in Westminster Abbey ; where 
the gloominess of the place, and the use to 
which it is applied, with the solemnity of the 
building, and the condition of the people who 
lie in it, are apt to fdl the mind with a kind'of 
melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is 
not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole 
afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and 
the church, amusing myself with the tomb- 
stones and inscriptions that I met with in 
those several regions of the dead. Most of 
them recorded nothing else of the buried 
person, but that he was born upon one day, 
and died upon another : the whole history of 
his life being comprehended in those two 
circumstances that are common to all man- 
kind. I could not but look upon these regis- 
ters of existence, whether of brass or marble, 
as a kind of satire upon the departed persons ; 
who left no other memorial of them, but that 
they were born, and that they died. They 
put me in mind of several persons mentioned 
in the battles of heroic poems, who have 
sounding names given them, for no other 
reason but that they may be killed, and are 
celebrated for nothing but being knocked on 
the head. 

" TXavKbv Te Me56fTa re QepaCKox^v re." ^ 

— HOM. 

"Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochumque." 

— ViRG. 

The life of these men is finely described in 
Holy Writ by " the path of an arrow," which is 
immediately closed up and lost. 

Upon my going into the church, I enter- 
tained myself with the digging of a grave; 
and saw in every shovel-full of it that was 
thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull 
intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering 
earth, that some time or other had a place in 
the composition of an human body. Upon 
this I began to consider with myself, what in- 
numerable multitudes of people lay confused 
together under the pavement of that ancient 
cathedral; how men and women, friends and 
enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and 
prebendaries, were crumbled amongst one 
another, and blended together in the same 
common mass ; how beauty, strength, and 
youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, 

1 " Glaucus, and Medon, and Thersilochus." 



THE SPECTATOR 



265 



lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous 
heap of matter. 

After having thus surveyed this great maga- 
zine of mortaUty, as it were in the lump, I ex- 
amined it more particularly by the accoimts 
which I found on several of the monuments 
which are raised in every quarter of that 
ancient fabric. Some of them were covered 
with such extravagant epitaphs, that if it 
were possible for the dead person to be ac- 
quainted with them, he would blush at the 
praises which his friends have bestowed on 
him. There are others so excessively modest, 
that they deliver the character of the person 
departed in Greek or Hebrew, and by that 
means are not understood once in a twelve- 
month. In the poetical quarter, I found there 
were poets who had no monuments, and mon- 
uments which had no poets. I observed, in- 
deed, that the present war had filled the 
church with many of these uninhabited monu- 
ments, which had been erected to the memory 
of persons Avhose bodies were, perhaps, buried 
in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom of 
the ocean. 

I could not but be very much delighted with 
several modern epitaphs, which are written 
with great elegance of expression and justness 
of thought, and therefore do honour to the 
living as well as to the dead. As a foreigner 
is very apt to conceive an idea of the igno- 
rance or pohteness of a nation from the turn 
of their public monuments and inscriptions, 
they should be submitted to the perusal of 
men of learning and genius before they are 
put in execution. Sir Cloudesley Shovel's^ 
monument has very often given me great 
offence. Instead of the brave, rough, English 
admiral, which Avas the distinguishing char- 
acter of that plain, gallant man, he is repre- 
sented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, 
dressed in a long periwig, and reposing him- 
self upon velvet cushions under a canopy of 
state. The inscription is answerable to the 
monument ; for, instead of celebrating the 
many remarkable actions he had performed 
in the sersacc of his country, it acquaints us 
only with the manner of his death, in which it 
was impossible for him to reap any honour. 
The Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for 
want of genius, show an infinitely greater taste 
of antiquity and politeness in their buildings 
and works of this nature, than what we meet 

^ Drowned at sea, 1707 



with in those of our own country. The monu- 
ments of their admirals, which have been 
erected at the public expense, represent them 
Hke themselves, and are adorned with rostral ^ 
crowns and naval ornaments, with beautiful 
festoons of sea-weed, shells, and coral. 

But to return to our subject. I have left 
the repository of our English kings for the 
contemplation of another day, when I shall 
find my mind disposed for so serious an amuse- 
ment. I know that entertainments of this 
nature are apt to raise dark and dismal 
thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy 
imaginations ; but for my own part, though I 
am always serious, I do not know what it is 
to be melancholy ; and can therefore take a 
view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes, 
with the same pleasure as in her most gay and 
deHghtful ones. By this means I can improve 
myself with those objects, which others con- 
sider with terror. When I look upon the 
tombs of the great, every emotion of envy 
dies in me ; when I read the epitaphs of the 
beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out ; 
when I meet with the grief of parents upon 
a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compas- 
sion: when I see the tomb of the parents 
themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving 
for those whom we must quickly follow. 
When I see kings lying by those who deposed 
them, when I consider rival wits placed side 
by side, or the holy men that divided the 
world with their contests and disputes, I 
reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the 
little competitions, factions, and debates of 
mankind. When I read the several dates of 
the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and 
some six hundred years ago, I consider that 
great day when we shall all of us be contem- 
poraries, and make our appearance together. 



THE HEAD-DRESS 

NO. 98. FRIDAY, JUNE 22, 17 11 

Tanta est quaerendi cura decoris.^ 

— Juv. Sat. vi. 500. 

There is not so variable a thing in nature as 
a lady's head-dress. Within my own memory 
I have known it rise and fall above thirty 

^ a crown adorned with figures of prows of ships 
2 So studiously their persons they adorn. 



266 



JOSEPH ADDISON 



degrees. About ten years ago it shot up to a 
very great height, insomuch that the female 
part of our species were much taller than the 
men. The women were of such an enormous 
stature, that "we appeared as grasshoppers 
before them ; " ^ at present the whole sex is in a 
manner dwarfed, and shrunk into a race of 
beauties that seems almost another species. 
I remember several ladies, who were once very 
near seven foot high, that at present want 
some inches of five. How they came to be 
thus curtailed I cannot learn. Whether the 
whole sex be at present under any penance 
which we know nothing of ; or whether they 
have cast their head-dresses in order to sur- 
prise us with something in that kind which 
shall be entirely new ; or whether some of the 
tallest of the sex, being too cunning for the 
rest, have contrived this method to make 
themselves appear sizeable, is still a secret ; 
though I find most are of opinion, they are at 
present hke trees new lopped and pruned, 
that will certainly sprout up and flourish with 
greater heads than before. For my own 
part, as I do not love to be insulted by 
women who are taller than myself, I admire 
the sex much more in their present humilia- 
tion, which has reduced them to their natural 
dimensions, than when they had extended 
their persons and lengthened themselves out 
into formidable and gigantic figures. I am 
not for adding to the beautiful edifices of 
nature, nor for raising any whimsical super- 
structure upon her plans : I must therefore 
repeat it, that I am highly pleased with the 
coiffure now in fashion, and think it shows the 
good sense which at present very much reigns 
among the valuable part of the sex. One 
may observe that women in all ages have 
taken more pains than men to adorn the out- 
side of their heads ; and indeed I very 
much admire,^ that those female architects 
who raise such wonderful structures out of 
ribands, lace, and wire, have not been recorded 
for their respective inventions. It is certain 
there have been as many orders in these kinds 
of building, as in those which have been made 
of marble. Sometimes they rise in the shape 
of a pyramid, sometimes like a tower, and 
sometimes like a steeple. In Juvenal's time 
the building grew by several orders and 
stories, as he has very humorously described 
it: 

^ Cf. Numbers xiii : 33 ^ wonder 



"Tot premit ordinibus, tot adhuc compagibus 
altum 
Aedifiicat caput : Andromachen a f route videbis ; 
Post minor est : aliam credas." ^ 

— Juv. Sat. vi. 501. 

But I do not remember in any part of my 
reading, that the head-dress aspired to as great 
an extravagance as in the fourteenth century; 
when it was buUt up in a couple of cones or 
spires, which stood so excessively high on each 
side of the head, that a woman, who was but 
a Pigmy without her head-dress, appeared like 
a Colossus upon putting it on. Monsieur 
Paradin - says, "That these old-fashioned fon- 
tanges ^ rose an ell above the head ; that they 
were pointed like steeples ; and had long loose 
pieces of crape fastened to the tops of them, 
which were ciuiously fringed, and hung down 
their backs hke streamers." 

The women might possibly have carried this 
Gothic building much higher, had not a 
famous monk, Thomas Conecte ^ by name, at- 
tacked it with great zeal and resolution. This 
holy man travelled from place to place to 
preach down this monstrous commode ; and 
succeeded so well in it, that, as the magicians 
sacrificed their books to the flames upon the 
preaching of an apostle, many of the women 
threw down their head-dresses in the middle 
of his sermon, and made a bonfire of them 
within sight of the pulpit. He was so re- 
nowned, as well for the sanctity of his life as 
his manner of preaching, that he had often a 
congregation of twenty thousand people ; the 
men placing themselves on the one side of his 
pulpit, and the women on the other, that ap- 
peared (to use the similitude of an ingenious 
writer) like a forest of cedars with their heads 
reaching to the clouds. He so warmed and 
animated the people against this monstrous 
ornament, that it lay under a kind of perse- 
cution ; and, whenever it appeared in public, 
was pelted down by the rabble, who flung 
stones at the persons that wore it. But 
notwithstanding this prodigy vanished while 
the preacher was among them, it began to ap- 

^ "With curls on curls they build her head before, 
And mount it with a formidable tower : 
A. giantess she seems; but look behind, 
And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind." 

- a French historian of England (15 10-1590) 
^ a kind of headdress ^ a Carmelite friar, burned 
in 1434 



THE SPECTATOR 



267 



pear again some months after his departure, 
or, to tell it in Monsieur Paradin's own words, 
"the women, that like snails in a fright had 
drawn in their horns, shot them out again as 
soon as the danger was over." This extrava- 
gance of the women's head-dresses in that age 
is taken notice of by Monsieur d'Argentre ^ in 
his History of Bretagne, and by other his- 
torians, as well as the person I have here 
quoted. 

It is usually observed, that a good reign is 
the only proper time for the making of laws 
against the exorbitance of power ; in the same 
manner an excessive head-dress may be at- 
tacked the most effectually when the fashion 
is against it. I do therefore recommend this 
paper to my female readers by way of preven- 
tion. 

I would desire the fair sex to consider how 
impossible it is for them to add anything that 
can be ornamental to what is already the 
masterpiece of nature. The head has the 
most beautiful appearance, as well as the high- 
est station, in a human figure. Nature has 
laid out all her art m beautifyuig the face ; she 
has touched it with vermillion, planted in it a 
double row of ivory, made it the seat of smiles 
and blushes, hghted it up and enlivened it with 
the brightness of the eyes, hung it on each side 
with the curious organs of sense, giving it airs 
and graces that cannot be described, and sur- 
rounded it with such a flowing shade of hair 
as sets all its beauties in the most agreeable 
light. In short, she seems to have designed 
the head as the cupola to the most glorious of 
her works ; and when we load it with such a 
pile of supcrnujnerary ornaments, we destroy 
the symmetry of the hvunan figure, and fool- 
ishly contrive to call off the eye from great and 
real beauties, to childish gewgaws, ribands, 
and bone-lace. 

THE VISION OF MIRZA 

NO. 159. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER i, 1711 

Oinncm, quae nunc obducla tuenti 
Morlales hcbetai visits tibi, et humida circmn 
Caligat, nuhan eripiam ^ . . . 

— ViRG. ^e;t. ii. 604. 

^ a French writer of the sixteenth century 

2 The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light, 

Hangs o'er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal sight, 

I will remove . . . 



When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up 
several Oriental manuscripts, which I have 
stUl by me. Among others I met with one 
entitled "The Visions of Mirza," which I have 
read over with great pleasure. I intend to 
give it to the pubhc when I have no other en- 
tertainment for them ; and shall begin with 
the first vision, which I have translated word 
for word as follows : 

"On the fifth day of the moon, which ac- 
cording to the custom of my forefathers I 
always keep holy, after having washed myself, 
and offered up my mornmg devotions, I as- 
cended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to 
pass the rest of the day in meditation and 
prayer. As I was here airing myself on the 
tops of the momitains, I feU into a profound 
contemplation on the vanity of human life ; 
and passing from one thought to another, 
' surely,' said I, ' man is but a shadow, and life 
a dream.' Whilst I was thus musing, I cast 
my eyes towards the summit of a rock that 
was not far from me, where I discovered one 
in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical 
instrument in his hand. As I looked upon 
him he applied it to his lips, and began to 
play upon it. The sound of it was exceed- 
ingly sweet, and wrought into a variety of 
tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and 
altogether different from anything I had ever 
heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly 
airs that are played to the departed souls of 
good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, 
to wear out the impressions of their last ago- 
nies, and qualify them for the pleasures of 
that happy place. My heart melted away 
in secret raptures. 

"I had been often told that the rock before 
me was the haunt of a Genius ; and that sev- 
eral had been entertained with music who had 
passed by it, but never heard that the musi- 
cian had before made himself visible. When 
he had raised my thoughts by those trans- 
porting airs which he played to taste the pleas- 
ures of his conversation, as I looked upon him 
like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and 
by the waving of his hand directed me to 
approach the place where he sat. I drew 
near with that reverence which is due to a 
superior nature ; and as my heart was entirely 
subdued by the captivatmg strains I had 
heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The 
Genius smiled upon me with a look of com- 
passion and affability that familiarized him 
to my imagination, and at once dispelled all 



268 



JOSEPH ADDISON 



the fears and apprehensions with which I ap- 
proached him. He lifted me from the ground, 
and taking me by the hand, 'Mirza,' said he, 
'I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; foUow 
me.' 

"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of 
the rock, and placing me on the top of it, ' Cast 
thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and teil me what 
thou seest.' ' I see,' said I, ' a huge valley, and 
a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.' 
'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is the 
Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that 
thou seest is part of the great Tide of Eter- 
nity.' 'What is the reason,' said I, 'that the 
tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, 
and again loses itself in a thick mist at the 
other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that 
portion of eternity which is called time, 
measured out by the sun, and reaching from 
the beginning of the world to its consimima- 
tion. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that 
is bounded with darkness at both ends, and 
tell me what thou disco verest in it.' 'I see a 
bridge,' said I, 'standing hi the midst of the 
tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is 
Human Life : consider it attentively.' Upon 
a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it 
consisted of three score and ten entire arches, 
with several broken arches, which added to 
those that were entire, made up the number 
about an hundred. As I was counting the 
arches, the Genius told me that this bridge 
consisted at first of a thousand arches ; but 
that a great flood swept away the rest, and 
left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now 
beheld it. 'But tell me farther,' said he, 
'what thou disco verest on it.' " 'I see multi- 
tudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and 
a black cloud hanging on each end of it.' As 
I looked more attentively, I saw several of 
the passengers dropping through the bridge 
into the great tide that flowed underneath it ; 
and upon farther examination, perceived there 
were innumerable trap-doors that lay con- 
cealed in the bridge, which the passengers 
no sooner trod upon, but they fell' through 
them into the tide, and immediately disap- 
peared. These hidden pit-falls were set very 
thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that 
throngs of people no sooner broke through the 
cloud, but many of them fell into them. 
They grew thinner towards the middle, but 
multiplied and lay closer together towards 
the end of the arches that were entire. 

"There were indeed some persons, but their 



number was very small, that continued a kind 
of hobbling march on the broken arches, but 
fell through one after another, being quite 
tired and spent with so long a walk. 

"I passed some time in the contemplation of 
this wonderful structure, and the great variety 
of objects which it presented. My heart was 
filled with a deep melancholy to see several 
dropping imexpectedly in the midst of mirth 
and jolhty, and catching at everything that 
stood by them to save themselves. Some 
were looking up towards the heavens, in a 
thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a 
speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. 
Miiltitudes were very busy in the pursuit of 
bubbles that glittered in their eyes and 
danced before them ; but often when they 
thought themselves within the reach of them, 
their footing failed and down they sunk. In 
this confusion of objects, I observed some with 
scimitars in their hands, who ran to and fro 
upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on 
trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their 
way, and which they might have escaped 
had they not been thus forced upon them. 

"The Genius seeing me indulge myself on 
this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt 
long enough upon it. 'Take thine eyes oflf 
the bridge,' said he, 'and teU me if thou yet 
seest anything thou dost not comprehend.' 
Upon looking up, 'What mean,' said I, 'those 
great flights of birds that are perpetually 
hovering about the bridge, and settling upon 
it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, 
ravens, cormorants, and among many other 
feathered creatures several Uttle winged boys, 
that perch in great numbers upon the middle 
arches.' 'These,' said the Genius, 'are Envy, 
Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with 
the like cares and passions that infest human 
life.' 

"I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,' said I, 
' Man was made in vain ! how is he given away 
to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and 
swallowed up in death!' The Genius being 
moved with compassion towards me, bid me 
quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no 
more,' said he, 'on man in the first stage of his 
existence, in his setting out for eternity ; but 
cast thine eye on that thick mist into which 
the tide bears the several generations of 
mortals that fall into it.' I directed my sight 
as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good 
Genius strengthened it with any supernatural 
force, or dissipated part of the mist that was 



THE SPECTATOR 



269 



before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I 
saw the valley opening at the farther end, and 
spreading forth into an immense ocean, that 
had a huge rock of adamant running through 
the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal 
parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, 
insomuch that I could discover nothing in it ; 
but the other appeared to me a vast ocean 
planted with innumerable islands, that were 
covered with fruits and flowers, and inter- 
woven with a thousand little shining seas that 
ran among them. I could see persons dressed 
in glorious habits with garlands upon their 
heads, passing among the trees, lying down 
by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of 
flowers ; and could hear a confused harmony 
of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, 
and musical instruments. Gladness grew 
in me upon the discovery of so delightful a 
scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, 
that I might fly away to those happy seats ; 
but the Genius told me there was no passage 
to them except through the gates of death that 
I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 
'The islands,' said he, 'that lie so fresh and 
green before thee, and with which the whole 
face of the ocean appears spotted as far as 
thou canst see, are more in number than the 
sands on the sea-shore : there are myriads of 
islands behind those which thou here dis- 
coverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or 
even thine imagination can extend itself. 
These are the mansions of good men after 
death, who, according to the degree and kinds 
of virtue in which they excelled, are distrib- 
uted among these several islands, which 
abound with pleasures of different kinds and 
degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfec- 
tions of those who are settled in them : every 
island is a paradise accommodated to its re- 
spective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, 
habitations worth contending for? Does 
life appear miserable that gives thee oppor- 
tunities of earning such a reward? Is death 
to be feared that will convey thee to so happy 
an existence? Think not man was made in 
vain, who has such an eternity reserved for 
him.' I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on 
these happy islands. At length, said I, ' Show 
me now^ I beseech thee, the secrets that lie 
hid under those dark clouds which cover the 
ocean on the other side of the rock of ada- 
mant.' The Genius making me no answer, I 
turned me about to address myself to him a 
second time, but I found that he had left me ; 



I then turned again to the vision which I had 
been so long contemplating ; but instead of 
the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the 
happy islands, I saw nothing but the long 
hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, 
and camels grazing upon the sides of it." 



HILPA AND SHALUM 

NO. 584. MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 17 14 

Hie gelidi f antes, hie mollia prata, Lycori, 
Hie nemus, hie ioto teeum consumerer aevo} 

— ViRG. Eel. X. 42. 

Hilpa was one of the hundred and fifty 
daughters of Zilpah, of the race of Cohu, by 
whom some of the learned think is meant Cain. 
She was exceedingly beautiful ; and, when she 
was but a girl of three score and ten years of 
age, received the addresses of several who 
made love to her. Among these were two 
brothers, Harpath and Shalum. Harpath, 
being the first-born, was master of that fruit- 
fiil region which lies at the foot of Mount 
Tirzah, in the southern parts<t)f China. Sha- 
lum (which is to say the planter in the Chinese 
language) possessed all the neighboring hills, 
and that great range of mountains which goes 
under the name of Tirzah. Harpath was of a 
haughty contemptuous spirit ; Shalmn was of 
a gentle disposition, beloved both by God 
and man. 

It is said, that among the antediluvian wo- 
men, the daughters of Cohu had their minds 
wholly set upon riches ; for which reason the 
beautiful Hilpa preferred Harpath to Shalum, 
because of his numerous flocks and herds that 
covered all the low country which runs along 
the foot of Mount Tirzah, and is watered by 
several fountains and streams breaking out of 
the sides of that mountain. 

Harpath made so quick a despatch of his 
courtship, that he married Hilpa in the hun- 
dredth year of her age ; and, being of an in- 
solent temper, laughed to scorn his brother 
Shalum for having pretended to the beautiful 
Hilpa, when he was master of nothing but a 

1 Come see what pleasures in our plains 

abound ; 
The woods, the fountains, and the flow'ry 

ground, 
Here I could live, and love, and die, with only 

you. 



270 



JOSEPH ADDISON 



long chain of rocks and mountains. This so 
much provoked Shalum, that he is said to 
have cursed his brother in the bitterness of 
his heart, and to have prayed that one of his 
mountains might fall upon his head if ever he 
came within the shadow of it. 

From this time forward Harpath would 
never venture out of the valleys, but came to 
an untimely end in the two hundred and 
fiftieth year of his age, being drowned in a 
river as he attempted to cross it. This river 
is called to this day, from his name who per- 
ished in it, the river Harpath : and, what is 
very remarkable, issues out of one of those 
mountains which Shalum wished might fall 
upon his brother, when he cursed him in the 
bitterness of his heart. 

Hilpa was in the hundred and sixtieth year 
of her age at the death of her husband, having 
brought him but fifty chUdren before he was 
snatched away, as has been already related. 
Many of the antediluvians made love to the 
yomig widow; though no one was thought 
so likely to succeed in her affections as her 
first lover Shalum, who renewed his court 
to her about Mn years after the death of 
Harpath ; for it was not thought decent in 
those days that a widow should be seen by a 
man within ten years after the decease of her 
husband. 

Shalum falhng into a deep melancholy, and 
resolving to take away that objection which 
had been raised against him when h5 made 
his first addresses to Hilpa, began, imme- 
diately after her marriage Vv'ith Harpath, to 
plant all that mountainous region which fell 
to his lot in the division of this country. He 
knew how to adapt every plant to its proper 
soil, and is thought to have inherited many 
traditional secrets of that art from the first 
man. This employment turned at length to 
his profit as well as to his amusement ; his 
mountains were in a few years shaded with 
young trees, that gradually shot up into 
groves, Vvoods, and forests, intermixed with 
walks, and lawns, and gardens ; insomuch that 
the whole region, from a naked and desolate 
prospect, began now to look hke a second 
Paradise. The pleasantness of the place, and 
the agreeable disposition of Shalum, who was 
reckoned one of the mildest and wisest of all 
who lived before the flood, drew into it mul- 
titudes of people, who were perpetually em- 
ployed in the sinking of wells, the digging of 
trenches, and the hollowing of trees, for the 



better distribution of water through every 
part of this spacious plantation. 

The habitations of Shalum looked every 
year more beautiful in the eyes of Hilpa, who, 
after the space of seventy autumns, was 
wonderfully pleased with the distant prospect 
of Shalum's hfils, which were then covered 
with innumerable tufts of trees and gloomy 
scenes, that gave a magnificence to the place, 
and converted it into one of the finest land- 
scapes the eye of man could behold. 

The Chinese record a letter which Shalum 
is said to have written to Hilpa in the eleventh 
year of her widowhood. I shall here trans- 
late it, without departing from that noble 
simplicity of sentiment and plainness of 
manners which appears in the original. 

Shalum was at the time one hundred and 
eighty years old, and Hilpa one hundred and 
seventy. 

"Shalxjm, Master op Mount Tirzah, to 
Hilpa, Mistress of the Valleys 

" In the /'88th year of the creation. 

"What have I not suffered, O thou daughter 
of Zilpah, since thou gavest thyself away in 
marriage to my rival ! I grew weary of the 
Hght of the sun, and have been ever since 
covering myself with woods and forests. 
These threescore and ten years have I be- 
wailed the loss of thee on the top of IMoimt 
Tirzah, and soothed my melancholy among a 
thousand gloomy shades of my own raising. 
My dwellings are at present as the garden of 
God ; every part of them is filled with fruits, 
and flowers, and fomitains. The whole 
momitain is perfumed for thy reception. 
Come up into it, O my beloved, and let us 
people this spot of the new world with a 
beautiful race of mortals; let us multiply 
exceedingly among these delightful shades, 
and fill every quarter of them with sons and 
daughters. Remember, O thou daughter of 
Zilpah, that the age of man is but a thousand 
years ; that beauty is the admiration but of a 
few centuries. It flourishes as a mountain 
oak, or as a cedar on the top of Tirzah, which 
in three or four hmidred years will fade away, 
and never be thought of by posterity, miless 
a 3''oimg wood springs from its roots. Think 
well on this, and remember thy neighbour in 
the mountains." 

Having here inserted this letter, which I 
look upon as the only antediluvian billet-doux 



THE SPECTATOR 



271 



now extant, I shall in my next paper give the 
answer to it, and the sequel of this story. 

NO. 5S5. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1714 

Ipsi laetitia voces ad sidera jactant 

In ton si montes: ipsaejam carmina rupes, 

Ipsa sonant arbusta?- 

— ViRG. Ed. V. 62. 

The Sequel of the Story of Shalum and 

HiLPA 

The letter inserted in my last had so good an 
effect upon Hilpa, that she answered in less 
than a twelvemonth, after the foUov/ing 
manner : 

"Hilpa, Mistress of the Valleys, to 
Shalum, Master of Mount Tirzah 

" In the ySgth year of the creation. 

"What have I to do with thee, O Shalum? 
Thou praisest Hilpa's beauty, but art thou not 
secretly enamoured with the verdure 'of her 
meadows? Art thou not more affected with 
the prospect of her green valleys, than thou 
wouldest be with the sight of her person? 
The lowings of my herds and the bleatings of 
my flocks make a pleasant echo in thy moun- 
tains, and somid sweetly in thy ears. What 
though I am delighted with the wavings of thy 
forests, and those breezes of perfixmes which 
flow from the top of Tirzah, are these like 
the riches of the valley ? 

"I know thee, O Shalum; thou art more 
wise and happy than any of the sons of men. 
Thy dwellings are among the cedars ; thou 
searchest out the diversity of soils, thou under- 
standest the influences of the stars, and mark- 
est the change of seasons. Can a woman 
appear lovely in the eyes of such a one? 
Disquiet me not, O Shaltmi ; let me alone, 
that I may enjoy those goodly possessions 
which are fallen to my lot. Win me not by 
thy enticing words. May thy trees increase 
and multipl}'^ ! mayest thou add wood to 
wood, and shade to shade ! but tempt not 
Hilpa to destroy thy sohtude, and make thy 
retirement popiilous." 

The Chinese say that a little time after- 
wards she accepted of a treat in one of the 
neighbouring hills to which Shalum had in- 

1 The mountain tops unshorn, the rocks rejoice ; 
The lowly shrubs partake of human voice. 



vited her. This treat lasted for two years, 
and is said to have cost Shalimi five hundred 
antelopes, two thousand ostriches, and a 
thousand tun of milk ; but what most of all 
recommended it, was that variety of delicious 
fruits and potherbs, in which no person then 
living could any way equal Shalum. 

He treated her in the bower which he had 
planted amidst the wood of nightingales. 
The wood was made up of such fruit-trees 
and plants as are most agreeable to the several 
kinds of singing-birds ; so that it had drawn 
into it aU the music of the country, and was 
filled from one end of the year to the other 
with the most agreeable concert in season. 

He showed her every day some beautiful 
and surprising scene in this new region of 
woodlands ; and, as by this means he had all 
the opportunities he coifld wish for, of open- 
ing his mind to her, he succeeded so well, that 
upon her departure she made him a kind of 
promise, and gave him her word to return him 
a positive answer in less than fifty years. 

She had not been long among her own 
people in the valleys, when she received new 
overtures, and at the same time a most 
splendid visit from Mishpach, who was a 
mighty man of old, and had built a great city, 
which he called after his own name. Every 
house was made for at least a thousand years, 
nay, there were some that were leased out for 
three lives ; so that the quantity of stone and 
timber consumed in this building is scarce to 
be imagined by those who live in the present 
age of the world. This great man entertained 
her with the voice of musical instruments 
which had been lately invented,^ and danced 
before her to the sound of the timbrel. He 
also presented her with several domestic 
utensils wrought in brass and iron, which had 
been newly found out ^ for the conveniency of 
life. In the meantime Shalum grew very 
uneasy with himself, and was sorely displeased 
at Hilpa for the reception which she had 
given to Mishpach, insomuch that he never 
wrote to her or spoke of her during a whole 
revolution of Saturn;^ but, finding that this 
intercourse went no farther than a visit, he 
again renewed his addresses to her ; who, 
during his long silence, is said very^ often to 
have cast a wishing eye upon JNIount Tirzah. 

Her mind continued wavering about twenty 

' Cf. Genesis iv: 21 ^ Genesis iv: 22 ^ nearly 
thirty years • 



272 



MATTHEW PRIOR 



years longer between Shalum and Mishpach ; 
for though her inclinations favoured the 
former, her interest pleaded very powerfully 
for the other. While her heart was in this 
unsettled condition, the following accident 
happened, which determined her choice. A 
high tower of wood that stood in the city of 
Mishpach having caught fire by a flash of 
lightning, in a few days reduced the whole 
town to ashes. Mishpach resolved to rebuild 
the place, whatever it should cost him : and, 
having already destroyed all the timber of 
the country, he was forced to have recourse to 
Shalum, whose forests were now two hundred 
years old. He purchased these woods with so 
many herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, and 
with such a vast extent of fields .and pastures, 
that Shalum was now grown more wealthy 
than Mishpach ; and therefore appeared so 
charming in the eyes of Zilpah's daughter, 
that she no longer refused him in marriage. 
On the day in which he brought her up into 
the mountains he raised a most prodigious pile 
of cedar, and of every sweet smelling wood, 
which reached above three hundred cubits 
in height ; he also cast into the pile bundles 
of myrrh and sheaves of spikenard, enriching 
it with every spicy shrub, and, making it fat 
with the gums of his plantations. This was 
the burnt-offering which Shalum offered in 
the day of his espousals: the smoke of it. 
ascended up to heaven, and filled the whole 
country with incense and perfume. 



MATTHEW PRIOR (1664-1721) 

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE 
YEARS OLD 

Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous 
band, 

That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, 
Were summoned by her high command. 

To show their passions by their letters. 4 

My pen among the rest I took. 

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read 

Should dart their kindling fires, and look 
The power they have to be obeyed. 8 

Nor quality, nor reputation. 

Forbid me yet my flame to tell, . 



Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, 
And I may write till she can speU. 1 2 

For, while she makes her silk-worms beds 
With all the tender things I swear ; 

Whilst all the house my passion reads, 

In papers round her baby's hair ; 16 

She may receive and own my flame. 
For, though the strictest prudes should 
know it, 

She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, 
And I for an unhappy poet. 20 

Then too, alas ! when she shall tear 
The lines some younger rival sends ; 

She'll give me leave to write, I fear. 
And we shall still continue friends. 24 

For, as our different ages move, 

'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it !) 
That I shall be past making love. 

When she begins to comprehend it. 28 



THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE 
DISEASE 

I sent for Ratcliffe ; was so ill, 
That other doctors gave me over : 

He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, 

And I was likely to recover. 4 

But when the wit began to wheeze, 
And wine had warm'd the politician, 

Cured yesterday of my disease, 
I died last night of my physician. 8 



TO HIS SOUL 

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF 
HADRIAN 

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, 
Must we no longer live together? 

And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, 3 
To take thy flight thou know'st not whither ? 

Thy humorous vein, th)' pleasing folly 

Lie all neglected, all forgot : 
And pensive, wavering, melanchol}^ 

Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not 
what. 8 



ALEXANDER POPE 



273 



ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744) 

AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM 

From PART I 

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill 
Appear in writing or in judging ill ; 
But, of the two, less dangerous is th' offence 
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense. 
Some few in that, but numbers err in this, 5 
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss ; 
A fool might once himself alone expose. 
Now one in verse makes many more in prose. 
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, 

none 
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 10 
In poets as true genius is but rare. 
True taste as seldom is the critic's share ; 
Both must alike from Heaven derive their 

light, 
These born to judge, as well as those to write. 
Let such teach others who themselves excel. 
And censure freely who have written well. 16 
Authors are partial to their wit,^ 'tis true, 
But are not critics to their judgment too? 



First follow Nature, and your judgment 
frame 
By her just standard, which is still the same : 
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, 70 

One clear, unchanged, and universal light. 
Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, 
At once the source, and end, and test of Art. 
Art from that fund each just supply provides, 
Works without show, and without pomp pre- 
sides : 75 
In some fair body thus th' informing soul 
With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole. 
Each motion guides, and every nerve sus- 
tains ; 
Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains. 
Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been pro- 
fuse, 80 
Want as much more, to turn it to its use ; 
For wit and judgment often are at strife. 
Though meant each other's aid, like man and 

wife. 
'Tis more to guide than spur the IMuse's 

steed ; 
Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed ; 85 



The winged courser, like a generous horse, 
Shows most true mettle when you check his 
course. 
Those rules of old discovered, not devised, 
Are Nature still, but Nature methodized ; 
Nature, like liberty, is but restrained 90 

By the same laws which first herself ordained. 



You, then, whose judgment the right course 
would steer. 
Know well each ancient's proper character ; 
His fable, subject, scope in every page ; 120 
Religion, country, genius of his age : 
Without all these at once before your eyes, 
Cavil you may, but never criticise. 
Be Homer's works your study and delight, 
Read them by day, and meditate by night ; 
Thence form your judgment, thence your 
maxims bring, 126 

And trace the Muses upward to their spring. 
Still with itself compared, his text peruse ; 
And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.^ 
When first young Maro ^ in his boundless 
mind 130 

A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed, 
Perhaps he seemed above the critic's law, 
And but from nature's fountains scorned to 

draw : 
But when t' examine every part he came. 
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same. 
Convinced, amazed, he checks the bold de- 
sign ; 136 
And rules as strict his laboured work confine. 
As if the Stagirite ^ o'erlooked each line. 
Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem ; 
To copy nature is to copy them. 140 
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare. 
For there's a happiness as well as care. 
Music resembles poetry, in each 
Are nameless graces which no methods teach, 
And which a master-hand alone can reach. 
If, where the rules not far enough extend, 
(Since rules were made but to promote their 
end) 147 
Some lucky license answer to the full 
Th' intent proposed, that license is a rule. 
Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, 150 
May boldly deviate from the common track ; 
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part , 
And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art. 
\^^lich without passing through the judg- 
ment, gains 



^ creative power 



^ Vergil - Aristotle 



274 



ALEXANDER POPE 



The heart, and all its end at once attains. 155 
In prospects thus, some objects please our 

eyes. 
Which out of nature's common order rise, 
The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice. 
Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, 
And rise to faults true critics dare not mend. 
But tho' the ancients thus their rules invade, 
(As kings dispense with laws themselves have 
made) 162 

Moderns, beware ! or if you must offend 
Against the precept, ne'er transgress its end; 
Let it be seldom and compelled by need ; 165 
And have, at least, their precedent to plead. 
The critic else proceeds without remorse. 
Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force. 
I know there are, to whose presumptuous 
thoughts 169 

Those freer beauties, e'en in them, seem faiilts. 
Some figures monstrous and misshaped ap- 
pear. 
Considered singly, or beheld too near. 
Which, but proportioned to their light or 

place. 
Due distance reconciles to form and grace. 
A prudent chief not always must display 175 
His powers in equal ranks, and fair array. 
But with th' occasion and the place comply, 
Conceal his force, nay, seem sometimes to 

fly. 
Those oft are stratagems which errors seem, 
Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream. 180 

From PART II 

Others for language aU their care express. 
And value books, as women, men, for dress : 
Their praise is still,^ — the style is excellent ; 
The sense, they humbly take upon content. 
Words are like leaves ; and where they most 

abound. 
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. 
False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, 311 
Its gaudy colours spreads on every place ; 
The face of nature we no more survey. 
All glares alike, without distinction gay : 
But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, 
Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon, 
It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 317 
Expression is the dress of thought, and still 
Appears more decent, as more suitable; 
A vile conceit in pompous words expressed. 
Is like a clown in regal purple dressed : 321 

^ always 



For different styles with different subjects sort, 
As several garbs with country, town, and 

court. 
Some by old words to fame have made pre- 
tence. 
Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their 
■ sense ; . 325 

Such laboru-ed nothings, in so strange a style, 
Amaze th' imlearn'd, and make the learned 

smile. 
Unlucky, as Fungoso ^ in the play, 
These sparks with awkward vanity display 
What the fine gentleman wore yesterday ; 330 
And but so mimic ancient wits at best, 
As apes our grandsires, in their doublets 

dressed. 
In words, as fashions, the sam.e rule wUl hold ; 
Alike fantastic, if too new, or old : 
Be not the first by whom the new are tried, 
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 336 

But most by numbers - judge a poet's song ; 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or 

wrong : 
In the bright Muse though thousand charms 

conspire, 339 

Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, 
Not mend their minds ; as some to church 

repair. 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
These equal syllables alone reqtiire, 
Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 345 
While expletives their feeble aid do join. 
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line : 
WhUe they ring round the same unvaried 

chimes, 
With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 
Where'er you find "the cooling western 

breeze," 350 

In the next line, it "whispers through the 

trees;" 
If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs 

creep," 
The reader's threatened (not in vain) with 

"sleep:" 
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 
With some mimeaning thing they call a 

thought, 355 

A needless Alexandrine ends the song. 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow 

length along. 

^ In Jonson's Every Man out of his Humour 

he unsuccessfully attempts to ape the fashionable. 
^ metre 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 



275 



Leave such to tune their own dull rhj^mes, and 

know 
What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow ; 
And praise the easy \dgour of a line, 360 

Where Denham's strength, and Waller's 

sweetness join. 
True ease in writing comes from art, not 

chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to 

dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence. 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
Soft is the strain when ZephjT gently blows, 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers 

flows ; 367 

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. 
The hoarse, rough verse should like the tor- 
rent roar. 
When iVjax strives some rock's vast weight to 

tlirow, 370 

The line too labours, and the words move 

slow ; 
Not so, when s'ndft Camilla scours the plain, 
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along 

the main. 
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays svixprise. 
And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! 375 
WTiile, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove 
Now burns with glory, and then melts with 

love ; 
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow. 
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow : 
Persians and Greeks like tiu-ns of nature 

found, 380 

And the world's victor stood subdued by 

sound ! 
The power of music all our hearts allow, 
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. 

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 
AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM 

Canto I 

\\niat dire offence from amorous causes 

springs, 
What mighty contests rise from trivial things, 
I sing. — This verse to Caryl, iNIuse ! is due; 
This, e'en Belinda may vouchsafe to view. 
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 5 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 

Say what strange motive. Goddess I could 
compel 
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle ? 



Oh, say what stranger cause, yet unexplored. 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord ? 10 
In tasks so bold, can little men engage. 
And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage ? 
Sol through white curtams shot a timorous 

ray. 
And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day. 
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing 

shake, 15 

And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake. 
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the 

ground,^ 
And the pressed watch - returned a silver 

sound. 
^ [Belinda stiU her downy pillow pressed. 
Her guardian sylph prolonged the balmy 

rest ; 20 

'Twas he had summoned to her silent bed 
The morning dream that hovered o'er her 

head ; 
A youth more glittering than a birth-night 

beau, 
(That e'en in slumber caused her cheek to 

glow) 
Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay, 25 
And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say : 
"Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished care 
Of thousand bright inhabitants of air ! 
If e'er one vision touched thy infant thought, 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, 
Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, 31 
The silver token,'* and the circled green, ^ 
Or virgins visited by angel powers. 
With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly 

flowers f 34 

Hear and believe ! thy own importance know, 
Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. 
Some secret truths, from learned pride con- 
cealed. 
To maids alone and children are revealed. 
What though no credit doubting wits may 

give? 
The fair and innocent shall still believe. 40 
Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly, 
The light militia of the lower sky, 
These, though unseen, are ever on the wing. 
Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring.'' 
Think what an equipage thou hast in air, 45 
And view with scorn two pages and a chair. ^ 

^ to summon a servant - a repeater ^ The 
lines hetiixen brackets were not in the first version 
of the poem. "' a fairy gift ^ where fairies danced 
* as St. Cecilia was "^ a fashionable dri\e in 
Hyde Park * a sedan chair 



276 



ALEXANDER POPE 



As now your own, our beings were of old, 
And once enclosed in woman's beauteous 

mould; 
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair 
From earthly vehicles to these of air. 50 

Think not, when woman's transient breath is 

fled. 
That all her vanities at once are dead ; 
Succeeding vanities she still regards, 
And though she plays no more, o'erlooks the 

cards. 
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 55 

And love of ombre, ^ after death survive. 
For when the fair in all their pride expire, 
To their first elements their souls retire : 
The sprites of fiery termagants in flame 
Mount up, and take a salamander's name. 60 
Soft yielding minds to water glide away. 
And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea. 
The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome, 
In search of mischief still on earth to roam. 
The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair, 65 
And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 

" Know further yet : whoever fair and chaste 
Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced ; 
For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 
Assume what sexes and what shapes they 

please. 7° 

What guards the purity of melting maids. 
In. courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, 
Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring 

spark, ^ 
The glance by day, the whisper in the dark^ 
When kind occasion prompts their warm de- 
sires, 75 
When music softens, and when dancing fires ? 
'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know. 
Though honour is the word with men below. 
Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their 

face,^ 
For life predestined to the gnomes' embrace. 
These swell their prospects and exalt their 

pride, 81 

When offers are disdained, and love denied : 
Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain. 
While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping 

train. 
And garters, stars, and coronets "* appear, 85 
And in soft sounds ' Your Grace ' salutes their 

ear. 
'Tis these that early taint the female soul. 
Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, 

^ a game of cards ^ beau ^ beauty ^ S5Tnbols 
of rank 



Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know. 

And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 90 

"Oft when the world imagine women stray. 

The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their 

way. 
Through all the giddy circle they pursue. 
And old impertinence expel by new. 
What tender maid but must a victim fall 95 
To one man's treat, but for another's ball? 
When Florio speaks, what virgin coifld with- 
stand, 
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand ? 
With varying vanities, from every part. 
They shift the moving toyshop of their heart -, 
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots 
sword-knots strive, loi 

Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. 
This-erring mortals levity may caU ; 
Oh, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. 
"Of these am I, who thy protection claim, 
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 106 
Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air, 
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star 
I saw, alas ! some dread event impend. 
Ere to the main ^ this morning sun descend. 
But Heaven reveals not what, or how, or 
where. in 

Warned by the sylph, O pious maid, beware ! 
This to disclose is all thy guardian can : 
Beware of all, but most beware of man !" 
He said ; when Shock, who thought she 
slept too long, 115 

Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his 

tongue. 
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, 
Thy eyes first opened on a biUet-doux ; 
Wounds, charms, and ardours were no sooner 

read. 
But all the vision vanished from thy head. 
And now, unveiled, the toilet stands dis- 
played, 121 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores. 
With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers. 
A heavenly image in the glass appears, 125 
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears ; 
Th' inferior priestess,^ at her altar's side. 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. 
Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here 
The various offerings of the world appear ; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
And decks the goddess with the glittering 
spoil. 132 

^ the ocean ^ her maid 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 



277 



This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here and elephant unite, 135 

Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the 

white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; 
The fair each moment rises in her charms, 140 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace. 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy sylphs surround their darling care. 
These set the head,^ and those divide the hair, 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the 

gown ; 147 

And Betty's praised for labours not her own. 

Canto II 

Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain. 
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main,] ^ 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launched on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around 
her shone, S 

But every eye was fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ;io 
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends ; 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of 
pride, 15 

Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to 

hide ; 
If to her share some female errors fall, 
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. 
This nymph, to the destruction of man- 
kind, 
Nourished two locks, which graceful hung be- 
hind 20 
In equal curls, and well conspired to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 
With hairy springes we the birds betray, 25 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey. 



^ head-dress 
original version. 

AE 



Here ends the first addition to the 



Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare. 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 
Th' adventurous baron ^ the bright locks ad- 
mired ; 
He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. 
Resolved to win, he meditates the way, 31 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 
For when success a lover's toil attends, 
Few ask, if fraud or force attained his ends. 

For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implored 
Propitious Heaven, and every power adored, 
But chiefly Love; to Love an altar built. 
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves. 
And all the trophies of his former loves ; 40 
With tender billets-doux he lights the pyre. 
And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the 

fire. 
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent 

eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize. 
The powers gave ear, and granted half his 

prayer ; 45 

The rest the winds dispersed in empty air. 

"[But now secure the painted vessel glides. 
The sunbeams trembling on the floating 

tides ; 
While melting music steals upon the sky. 
And softened sounds along the waters die ; 50 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently 

play, 
Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay. 
All but the sylph — with careful thoughts 

oppressed, 
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. 
He summons straight his denizens of air ; 55 
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair ; 
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, 
That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath. 
Some to the sun their insect wings unfold. 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; 
Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, 
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light. 
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew. 
Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew, 
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, 65 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, 
While every beam new transient colours 

flings. 
Colours that change whene'er they wave their 

wings. 
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 

^ Lord Petre ^ Here begins the second addi- 
tion to the original version. 



278 



ALEXANDER POPE 



Superior by the head, was Ariel placed ; 70 
His purple pinions opening to the sun, 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : 
"Ye sylphs and sylphids, to your chief give 

ear ! 
Fays, fairies, genii, elves, and demons, hear 1 
Ye know the spheres, and various tasks as- 
signed _ 75 
By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. 
Some in the fields of purest sether play. 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. 
Some guide the course of wandering orbs on 

high, 
Or roll the planets through the boundless 

sky. 
Some less refined, beneath the moon's pale 

light 81 

Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the 

night. 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below. 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, 
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 
Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain ; 86 
Others on earth o'er human race preside. 
Watch all their ways, and aU their actions 

guide : 
Of these the chief the care of nations own, 
And guard with arms divine the British 

throne. 
"Our humbler province is to tend the fair. 
Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care ; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale, 
Nor let th' imprisoned essences exhale ; 
To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers ; 
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in 

showers, 96 

A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs, 
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs ; 
Nay, oft in dreams, invention we bestow, 
To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. . 100 
" This day, black omens threat the brightest 

fair 
That e'er deserved a watchful spirit's care ; 
Some dire disaster, or by force, or sleight ; 
But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in 

night. 
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 
Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 106 
Or stain her honour, or her new brocade ; 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; 
Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock 

must fall. no 

Haste, then, 3'^e spirits ! to your charge repair ; 
The fluttering fan be Zephyretta's care ; 



The drops ^ to thee, Brillante, we consign ; 
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine ; 
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock ; 
Ariel himself shaU be the guard of Shock. 116 
To fitly chosen sylphs, of special note, 
We trust th' important charge, the petticoat : 
Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to 

fail. 
Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs 
of whale; 120 

Form a strong line about the silver bound. 
And guard the wide circumference around. 
"Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, 
His post neglects., or leaves the fair at large, 
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his 
sins, ■ 125 

Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins ; 
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin's eye ; 
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, 
While clogged he beats his silken wings in 
vain; 130 

Or alum styptics with contracting power 
Shrink his thin essence like a rivelled ^ flower ; 
Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shaU feel 
The giddy miction of the whirling mill,^ 
In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, 135 
And tremble at the sea that froths below ! " 
He spoke; the spirits from the sails de- 
scend ; 
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; 
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair ; 
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear ; 140 
With beating hearts the dire event they wait. 
Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate.] * 

Canto IH 

Close by those meads, forever crowned with 

flowers. 
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising 

towers. 
There stands a structure of majestic frame, 
Which from the neighbouring Hampton^ takes 

its name. 
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home ; 6 
Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms 

obey. 
Dost sometimes counsel take — and some- 
times tea. 

^ ear-rings - withered ^ chocolate mill. ■* Here 
Olds the second addition to the original version. 
^ Hampton Court 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 



279 



Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, 
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court ; 10 
In various talk th' instructive hours they 

passed, 
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last ; 
One speaks the glory of the British Queen, 
And one describes a charming Indian screen ; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; 
At every word a reputation dies. 16 

SnufiV or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 
With smging, laughing, oghjig, and all that. 

Meanwhile, dechning from the noon of day, 
The sun obhquely shoots his burning ray ; 20 
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign. 
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine ; 
The merchant from th' Exchange returns in 

peace. 
And the long labours of the toilet cease. 
^ [Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 2 5 
Burns to encounter two adventurous loiights, 
At ombre singly to decide their doom ; 
And swells her breast with conquests yet to 

come. 
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to 

join. 
Each band the number of the sacred nine.^ 30 
Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard 
Descend, and sit on each important card : 
First, Ariel perched upon a Matadore, 
Then each, according to the rank they bore ; 
For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 
Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 

Behold, four kings in majesty revered. 
With hoary whiskers and a forky beard ; 
And four fair queeios whose hands sustain a 

flower. 
The expressive emblem of their softer power ; 
Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, 
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their 

hand; 42 

And parti-coloured troops, a shining train. 
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. 
The skilful nymph reviews her force with 

care : 45 

Let spades be trumps ! she said, and trumps 

they were. 
Now moved to war her sable Matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy JMoors. 
Spadillio '' first, unconquerable lord ! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the 

board. 50 

' Sniijf was then fashionable. ^ Here begins the 
third addition. '* the !Muses ■* ace of spades, the 
highest trump 



As many more ManilUo ^ forced to yield 
And marched a victor from the verdant field. 
Him Basto ^ followed, but his fate more hard 
Gained but one trump and one plebeian card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years. 
The hoary majesty of spades appears, 56 

Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed, 
The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed. 
The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, 
Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 60 
E'en mighty Pam,''' that kings and queens o'er- 

threw. 
And mowed down armies in the fights of Loo,* 
Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid. 
Falls undistinguished by the victor spade! 

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield ; 65 
Now to the baron fate inchnes the field. 
His warlike Amazon her host invades. 
The imperial consort of the crown of spades ; 
The club's black tyrant first her victim died. 
Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous 

pride. 70 

What boots the regal circle on his head. 
His giant limbs, in state unwdeldy spread ; 
That long behind he trails his pompous robe, 
And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? 
The baron now his diamonds pours apace ; 
Th' embroidered king who shows but half his 

face, 76 

And his refulgent queen, with powers com- 
bined. 
Of broken troops an easy conquest find. 
Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
With throngs promiscuous strew the level 

green. ^ So 

Thus when dispersed a routed army runs. 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons. 
With like confusion different nations fly. 
Of various habit, and of various dye. 
The pierced battalions disunited fall, 85 

In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwhclms them 

all. 
The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, 
And wins (oh shameful chance !) the queen of 

hearts. 
At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; 90 
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill. 
Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.*^ 

^ deuce of spades, the next highest - ace of ckibs, 
third trump. These three are called "matadores." 
^ knave of ckibs ■^ another game, in which Para 
is the highest card * the card table * a term sig- 
nifying the defeat of the single player 



28o 



ALEXANDER POPE 



And now (as oft in some distempered state) 
On one nice trick depends the general fate. 
An ace of hearts steps forth ; the king unseen 
Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive 

queen : 96 

He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. 
The nymph exulting tills with shouts the sky ; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 

Oh thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate, 

Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 102 

Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away, 

And cursed forever this victorious day.] ^ 

For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is 

crowned, 105 

The berries ^ crackle, and the miU turns rovmd ; 
On shining altars of Japan ^ they raise 
The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze : 
From sUver spouts the grateful liquors gUde, 
While China's earth ^ receives the smoking tide : 
At once they gratify their scent and taste, iii 
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
Straight hover round the fair her airy band ; 
Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned. 
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes dis- 
played, 115 
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise. 
And see through all things with his half-shut 

eyes) 
Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain 
New stratagems the radiant lock to gain. 120 
Ah, cease, rash youth ! desist ere 'tis too late. 
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! 
Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air. 
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair ! ^ 
But when to mischief mortals bend their 

-Roll, 125 

How soon they find fit instruments of ill ! 
Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
A two-edged weapon from her shining case : 
So ladies in romance assist their knight, 129 
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. 
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends 
The little engine on his fingers' ends ; 
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, 
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her 

head. 
^ [Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, 
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the 

hair; 135 

^ Here ends the third addition. ^ coffee-berries 
^ japanned tables ■* porcelain '^ Cf. Gayley, p. 
219. ** Here begins the fourth addition. 



And thrice they twitched the diamond in her 

ear; 
Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe 

drew near. 
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 
The close recesses of the virgin's thought ; 140 
As on the nosegay in her breast recHned, 
He watched th' ideas rising in her mind, 
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art. 
An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 
Amazed, confused, he found his power ex- 
pired, _ _ 145 
Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.] ^ 
The peer now spreads the glittering f orf ex ^ 

wide, 
T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide. 
^ [E'en then, before the fatal engine closed, 
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; 150 
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in 

twain, 
(But airy substance soon unites again) .]^ 
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever 
From the fair head, forever, and forever ! 
Then flashed the living lightning from her 

eyes, 155 

And screams of horror rend th' affrighted 

skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast, 
When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe 

their last ; 
Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high. 
In glittering dust and painted fragments he ! 
"Let wreaths of triumph now my temples 

twine," 161 

The victor cried ; "the glorious prize is mine ! 
^Vhile fish in stream.s, or birds delight in air, 
Or in a coach and six the British fair. 
As long as Atalantis ^ shall be read, 165 

Or the small pillow grace a lad5'^'s bed, 
While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 
When numerous wax-lights in bright order 

blaze. 
While nymphs take treats, or assignations 

give. 
So long my honour, name, and praise shall 

live ! 1 70 

What Time would spare, from steel receives its 

date, 
And monuments, like men, submit to fate ! 
Steel could the labour of the gods destroy. 
And strike to dust th' imperial towers of Troy ; 

^ Here ends the fourth addition. - scissors ^ Here 
begins the fifth addition. ^ Here e)ids the fifth ad- 
dition. ^ a scandalous book of the time 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 



281 



Steel could the works of mortal pride con- 
found, 175 

And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 

What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hairs 
should feel. 

The conquering force of unresisted steel?" 

Canto IV 

But anxious cares the pensive nymph op- 
pressed. 
And secret passions laboured in her breast. 
Not youthful kings in battle seized alive. 
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, 
Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss, 5 
Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss. 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die. 
Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinned 

awry, 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair. 
As thou, sad virgin, for thy ravished hair. 10 
^ [For, that sad moment, wlaen the sylphs with- 
drew 
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite. 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 14 

Down to the central earth, his proper scene, 
Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. ^ 

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, 
And in a vapour reached the dismal dome. 
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows. 
The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 
Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, 21 
And screened in shades from day's detested 

glare, 
She sighs forever on her pensive bed, 
Pain at her side, and Megrim ^ at her head. 
Two handmaids wait the throne, alike in 
place, 
But differing far in figure and in face. 26 

Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid. 
Her wrinkled form in black and white ar- 
rayed ; 
With store of prayers, for mornmgs, nights, 

and noons 
Her hand is filled ; her bosom with lampoons. 
There Affectation, with a sickly mien, 31 

Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen. 
Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside, 
Faints into airs, and languishes with pride. 
On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 35 
Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for show. 

^ Here begins tlie sixth addition. ^ hysteria 
^ headache 



The fair ones feel such maladies as these. 
When each new night-dress gives a new dis- 
ease. 
A constant vapour o'er the palace flies ; 39 
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise ; 
Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted 

shades. 
Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. 
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling 

spires. 
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires ; 
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 45 
And crystal domes, and angels in machines.^ 
Unnumbered throngs on every side are 
seen. 
Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen. 
Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out. 
One bent ; the handle this, and that the spout. 
A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod,- walks ; 51 
Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks ; 
Men prove with child, as powerful fancy 

works. 
And maids, turned bottles, call aloud for corks. 
Safe -passed the gnome through this fantastic 
band, _ 55 

A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. 
Then thus addressed the power : "Hail, way- 
ward queen ! 
Who rule the sex, to fifty from fifteen : 
Parent of vapours ^ and of female wit ; 
Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit ; 60 

On various tempers act by various ways. 
Make some take physic, others scribble plays ; 
Who cause the proud their visits to delay. 
And send the godly in a pet to pray. 64 

A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains. 
And thousands more in equal mirth main- 
tains, 
But oh ! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace, 
Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face. 
Like citron-waters ■* matrons' cheeks inflame, 
Or change complexions at a losing game ; 70 
If e'er with airy horns I planted heads. 
Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds. 
Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude, 
Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude, 
Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, 75 
Which not the tears of brightest eyes could 
ease : 

^ stage devices for lowering gods or angels 
from the sky ^ In the Iliad, xviii, 373 S., 
Hephaistos is represented as making tripods that 
could walk. ^ hjTJOchondria •* a liquor distilled 
from citron rinds. 



282 



ALEXANDER POPE 



Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin, 
That single act gives half the world the 

spleen." 
The goddess with a discontented air 
Seems to reject him, though she grants his 

prayer. 80 

A wondrous bag with both her hands she 

binds, 
Like that where once Ulysses held the winds ; ^ 
There she collects the force of female lungs. 
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of 

tongues. 
A vial next she fills with fainting fears, 85 
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. 
The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, 
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to 

day. 
Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he 

found, 
Her eyes dejected and her hair mibound. 90 
Full o'er their heads the sv/elling bag he rent, 
And all the furies issued at the vent.] ^ 
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, 
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
"O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, 

and cried, 95 

(While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid ! " 

replied) 
"Was it for this you took such constant care 
The bodkin,^ comb, and essence to prepare ? 
For this your locks in paper durance bound. 
For this with torturing irons wreathed 

around ? 100 

For this with fillets strained your tender head, 
And bravely bore the double loads of lead? * 
Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair, 
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare ! 
Honour forbid ! at whose unrivalled shrine 
Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. 106 
Methinks already I your tears survey, 
Already hear the horrid things they say, 
Already see you a degraded toast. 
And all your honour in a whisper lost! no 
How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 
'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend ! 
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize. 
Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes, 
And heightened by the diamiond's circling 

rays, 
On that rapacious hand forever blaze? 116 
Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus ^ grow, 

^ Cf. the Odyssey, x, 20. ^ Here ends Ihe sixth 
addUion. ^ Cf. v, 95. ^ for curling the hair 

^ the Ring, cf. i, 44 



And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; ^ 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fail. 
Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish 

aU!" 120 

She said ; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, 
And bids her beau demand the precious hairs 
(Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vam, 
And the nice conduct of a clouded ^ cane) . 
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, 
He first the snuff-box opened, then the case. 
And thus broke out — "My lord, why, what 

the devil? 127 

Zounds ! damn the lock ! 'fore Gad, you must 

be civil ! 
Plague on't ! 'tis past a jest — nay, prithee 

pox ! 
Give her the hair," he spoke, and rapped his 

box. 130 

"It grieves me much," replied the peer again, 
"Who speaks so well should ever speak in 

vain. 
But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear. 
(Which never more shall join its parted hair ; 
Which never more its honours shall renew, 135 
Clipped from the lovely head where late it 

grew) 
That while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
This hand, which won it, shall forever wear." 
He spoke, and speaking, m proud triumph 

spread 
The long-contended honours of her head. 140 
^ [But Umbriel, hateful gnome ! forbears not 

so ; 
He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow.] ^ 
Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief ap-- 

pears. 
Her eyes half languishing, half drowned in 

tears ; 
On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head, 
Which, with a sigh, she raised ; and thus she 

said: 146 

"Forever curs'd be this detested day. 
Which snatched my best, my favourite curl 

away ! 
Happy ! ah, ten times happy had I been, 
If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen ! 
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 151 
By love of courts to numerous ills betra3'^ed. 
Oh, had I rather un admired remained 
In some lone isle or distant northern land ; 
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, 

^ the bells of St. Mary-le-bow, in the older and 
unfashionable part of London ^ mottled, cf . Tatler, 
No. 103. ^"^ The seventh addition. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 



283 



Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste 
bohea!^ 156 

There kept my charms concealed from mortal 
eye, 

Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 

What moved my mind with youthful lords to 
roam? 159 

Oh, had I stayed, and said my prayers at 
home ! 

'Twas this, the morning omens seemed to tell : 

Thrice from my trembling hand the patch- 
box 2 fell ; 

The tottering china shook without a wind ; 

Nav, Poll ^ sat mute, and Shock ■* was most un- 
kind I 

A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate, 

In mystic visions, now believed too late ! 166 

See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs ! 

My hands shall rend what e'en thy rapine 
spares ; 

These in two sable ringlets taught to break, 

Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; 

The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone, 171 

And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 

Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands, 

And tempts once more, thy sacrilegious 
hands. 

Canto V 

She said : the pitying audience melt in tears. 

But Fate and Jove had stopped the baron's 
ears. 

In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, 

For who can move when fair Belinda fails ? 

Not half so fixed the Trojan ^ could remain, s 

While Anna begged and IDido raged in vain. 

^ [Then grave Clarissa graceful waved her fan ; 

Silence ensued, and thus the nymph began : 
"Say, why are beauties praised and hon- 
oured most. 

The wise man's passion, and the vain man's 
toast? 10 

Why decked with all that land and sea afford. 

Why angels called, and angel-like adored? 

Why romid our coaches crowd the white- 
gloved beaux, 

Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? 

How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 15 

Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains ; 

^ a kind of tea ^ for patches see the Spectator, 
No. 81. ^ the parrot ' the lap-dog ^ .Eneas, cf. 
^neid, iv, 296-440 ® Bracketed lines were not in 
the original version. 



That men may say, when we the front-box 

grace, 
'Behold the first in virtue as in face !' 
Oh ! if to dance all night, and dress all day. 
Charmed the small-pox, or chased old age 

away. 
Who w^ould not scorn what housewife's cares 
produce, 2 1 

Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? 
To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, 
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. 
But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay ; 25 
Curled or uncurled, since locks will turn to 

grey ; 
Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, 
And she who scorns a man must die a maid ; 
What then remains but well our power to use, 
And keep good humour still, whate'er we lose? 
And trust me, dear ! good humour can prevail, 
When airs, and flights, and screams, and scold- 
ing fail. 3 2 
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; 
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the 
soul." 
So spoke the dame, but no applause ensued ; 
Belinda frowned, Thalestris called her prude.] 
"To arms, to arms !" the fierce virago^ cries, 
And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 38 
All side in parties, and begin th' attack ; 
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones 
crack ; 40 
Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, 
And bass and treble voices strike the skies. 
No common weapons in their hands are found, 
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal 
wound. 
So when bold Homer makes the gods en- 
gage, 45 
And heavenly breasts with human passions 

_ rage ; 
'Gainst Pallas, Mars ; Latona, Hermes arms ; 
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms : 
Jove's thunder roars. Heaven trembles all 

arouncf. 
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps re- 
sound : 50 
Earth shakes her nodding towers, the ground 

gives way. 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! 
^ [Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's^ height 
Clapped his glad wings, and sat to view the 
fight; 

^ Thalestris ^ Bracketed lines were 7iot in the 
original version. ^ candlestick 



284 



ALEXANDER POPE 



Propped on their bodkin spears, the sprites 

survey _ 55 

The growing combat, or assist the fray.] 
While through the press enraged Thalestris 

flies, 
And scatters death around from both her eyes, 
A beau and witling perished in the throng, 
One died in metaphor, and one in song. 60 
"O cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," ^ 
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, 
"Those eyes are made so killing" ^ — was his 

last. 
Tht:s on Mseander's^ flowery margin lies 65 
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. 
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa 

down, 
Chloe stepped in and killed him with a frown ; 
She smiled to see the doughty hero slain, 
But, at her smile, the beau revived again. 70 
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, 
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's 

hair; 
The doubtful beam long nods from side to 

side; 
At length the wits mount up, the hairs sub- 
side. 
See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies, 75 
With more than usual lightning in her eyes ; 
Nor feared the chief th' unequal fight to try, 
Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
But this bold lord with manly strength 

endued. 
She with one finger and a thumb subdued : 80 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ; 
^ [The gnomes direct, to every atom just, 
The pungent grains of titillating dust.] 
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'er- 

flows, 85 

And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 
"Now meet thy fate," incensed Belinda 

cried. 
And drew a deadly bodkin from tfer side. 
^ [(The same, his ancient personage to deck, 89 
Her great great grandsire wore about his neck, 
In three seal-rings ; which after, melted down, 
Formed a vast buckle for his widow's gown ; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew. 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew ; 

^ This is the "metaphor." ^ From a song in the 
opera Camilla. ^ a winding river in Asia Minor, 
frequented by swans, cf. Ovid, Epist. vii, i, 2 
* Bracketed lines were not in the original version. 



Then in a bodkin graced her mother's hairs. 
Which long she wore, and now Behnda wears.)] 
"Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting 

foe ! . 97 

Thou by some other shalt be laid as low ; 
Nor think to die dejects my lofty mind : 
All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 100 
Rather than so, ah, let me still survive, 
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn 

alive." 
"Restore the lock!" she cries; and all 

around 
" Restore the lock !" the vaulted roofs rebound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain . 105 
Roared for the handkerchief that caused his 

pain. 
But see how oft ambitious aims are crossed, 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 
The lock, obtained with guilt, and kept with 

pain. 
In every place is sought, but sought in vain : 
With such a prize no mortal must be blessed, 
So Heaven decrees ! with Heaven who can 

contest ? 112 

Some thought it mounted to the lunar 

sphere. 
Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. 
There heroes' wits are kept in ponderous vases. 
And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer cases ; 
There broken vows and death-bed alms are 

found, 117 

And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound, 
The- courtier's promises, and sick man's 

prayers. 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,i2i 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 
But trust the Muse — she saw it upward 

rise. 
Though marked by none but quick, poetic 

eyes: 
(So Rome's great founder to the heavens with- 
drew, 125 
To Proculus ^ alone confessed in view) 
A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, 
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks ^ first rose so bright, 
The heavens bespangling with dishevelled 

light. 

^ Cf. Livy, I, 6 ^ The wife of Ptolemy Euergetes 
dedicated her hair for the safe return of her hus- 
band; upon its disappearance the astronomer Conon 
reported that it had been changed to the constellation 
Coma Berenices. 



ELOISA TO ABELARD 



285 



4The sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 131 
And pleased pursue its progress through the 
skies.] 
This the beau monde shall from the Mall ^ 
survey, 
And hail with music its propitious ray. 
^ [This the blest lover shall for Venus take, 135 
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.^j 
This Partridge ^ soon shall view in cloudless 

skies, 
When next he looks through Galileo's eyes ; ^ 
And hence th' egregious wizard shall fore- 
doom 
The fate of Louis and the fall of Rome. 140 
Then cease, bright n3anph ! to mourn thy 
ravished hair, 
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, 
Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost. 
For, after all the murders of your eye, 145 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die ; 
When those fair suns shall set, as set they 

must. 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust : 148 
This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame. 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 



From ELOISA TO ABELARD 

In these deep solitudes and awful cells, 
Where heavenly-pensive contemplation dwells, 
And ever-musing melancholy reigns, 
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins ? 
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last re- 
treat ? 5 
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ? 
Yet, yet I love ! — from Abelard it came, 
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. 

Dear fatal name ! rest ever unrevealed, 
Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed ! 10 
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
Where mixed with God's, his loved idea lies ! 
Oh, write it not, my hand — the name appears 
Already written — wash it out, my tears ! 
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays ; 15 

Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. 

Relentless walls ! whose darksome round 
contains 
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains : 

^ Bracketed lines were not in the original ver- 
sion. - in St. James' Park. ^ an almanac maker 
ridiculed by Swift ^ a telescope, cf. Far. Lost, 
I, 288 



Ye rugged rocks ! which holy knees have worn ; 
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid 

thorn ! 20 

Shrines ! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins 

keep. 
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to 

weep ! 
Though cold like you, unmoved and silent 

grown, 
I have not yet forgot myself to stone. 
All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part, 25 
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart ; 
Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse re- 
strain , 
Nor tears, for ages taught to flow in vain. 

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, 
That well-known name awakens all my woes. 
Oh, name forever sad ! forever dear ! 31 

Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a 

tear. 
I tremble too, where'er my own I find ; 
Some dire misfortune follows close behind. 
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, 35 
Led through a sad variety of woe : 
Now warm in love, now withering in my 

bloom. 
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom ! 
There stern religion quenched th' unwilling 

flame, 39 

There died the best of passions, love and fame. 
Yet write, oh ! write me all, that I may join 
'Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. 
Nor foes nor fortune take this power away ; 
And is my Abelard less kind than they ? 
Tears still are mine, and those I need not 

spare, 45 

Love but demands what else were shed in 

prayer ; 
No happier task these faded eyes pursue ; 
To read and weep is all they now can do. 

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief ; 
Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. 
Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's 

aid, _ _ 51 

Some banished lover, or some captive maid ; 
They live, they speak, they breathe what love 

inspires. 
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires. 
The virgin's wish without her fears im- 
part, 55 
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart. 
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul. 
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. 
Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy 

flame, 



286 



ALEXANDER POPE 



When love approached me under friendship's 

name ; 60 

My fancy formed thee of angehc kind, 
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind. 
Those smiling eyes, attempering every ray. 
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. 
Guiltless I gazed ; Heaven Ustened whUe you 

sung ; 6s 

And truths divine came mended^ from that 

tongue. 
From lips like those what precept failed to 

move? 
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love ; 
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I 

ran. 
Nor wished an angel whom I loved a man. 70 
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see ; 
Nor envy them that Heaven I lose for thee. 



How happy is the blameless vestal's lot ! 
The world forgetting, by the Vv^orld forgot : 
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ! 
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned ; 
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; 211 
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and 

weep ;"^ 
Desires composed, affections ever even ; 
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to 

Heaven. 
Grace shines around her with serenest beams, 
And whispering angels prompt her golden 

dreams. 
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, 217 
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes ; 
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring ; 
For her white virgins hymenaeals sing ; 220 
To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away, 
And melts in visions of eternal day. 

Far other dreams my erring soiil employ, 
Far other raptures, of unholy joy. 224 

When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day. 
Fancy restores what vengeance snatched 

away. 
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature 

free 
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. 

curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night ! 
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight ! 230 
Provoking demons all restraint remove. 

And stir within me every source of love. 

1 hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy 

charms, 



improved 



Quoted from Crashaw. 



And round th)'^ phantom glue my clasping 

arms. 
I wake : — • no more I hear, no more I view ; 
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. 236 
I call aloud ; it hears not what I say ; 
I stretch my empty arrns ; it glides away. 
To dream once more I close my willing eyes ; 
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise ! 240 

Alas, no more ! methinks we wandering go 
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's 

woe, 
Where round some mouldering tower pale ivy 

creeps. 
And low-browed rocks hang nodding o'er the 

deeps. 244 

Sudden you mount, you beckon from the 

skies ; 
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. 
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, 
And wake to all the griefs I left behind. 

From AN ESSAY ON MAN 
BOOK I 

Awake, my St. John ! leave all meaner things 
To low ambition, and the pride of kings. 
Let us (since life can little more supply 
Than just to look about us and to die) 
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man ; 5 
A mighty maze ! but not without a plan ; 
A wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous 

shoot ; 
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. 
Together let us beat this ample field, 
Try what the open, what the covert yield ; 10 
The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore 
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar ; 
Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, 
And catch the manners living as they rise ; 
Laugh where we must, be candid where we 

can ; 15 

But vindicate the ways of God to man. 

I. Say first, of God above, or man below. 
What can we reason, but from what we know? 
Of man, what see we but his station here 
From which to reason or to which refer? 20 
Through worlds unnumbered though the 

God be known, 
'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 
He, who through vast immensity can pierce, 
See worlds on worlds compose one universe. 
Observe how system into system runs, 25 
Wliat other planets circle other suns. 
What varied being peoples every star, 



AN ESSAY 'ON MAN 



287 



May tell why Heaven has made us as we are. 
But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, 
The strong connections, nice dependencies, 30 
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 
Looked through? or can a part contain the 

whole ? 
Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, 
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee? 
II. Presumptuous man ! the reason wouldst 

thou find, 35 

Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind? 
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess. 
Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less? 
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made 
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade ? 
Or ask of yonder argent fields above, 41 

Why Jove's satellites^ are less than Jove. 

Of systems possible, if 'tis confessed 
That wisdom infinite must form the best, 
Where all must fidJ or not coherent be, 45 
And all that rises, rise in due degree ; 
Then, in the scale of reasoning hfe, 'tis plain, 
There must be, somewhere, such a rank as 

man : 
And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) 
Is only this, if God has placed him wrong? 50 

Respecting man, whatever wrong we call. 
May, must be right, as relative to all. 
In human works, though laboured on with 

pain, 
A thousand movements scarce one purpose 

gain ; 
In God's, one single can its end produce ; 55 
Yet serves to second too some other use. 
So man, who here seems principal alone, 
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, 
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal ; 
'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 60 



Then say not man's imperfect, Heaven in 

fault ; 
Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought : 70 
His knowledge measured to his state and 

place, 
His time a moment, and a point his space. 
If to be perfect in a certain sphere, 
What matter, soon or late, or here or there? 
The blest to-day is as completely so, 75 

As who began a thousand years ago. 

III. Heaven from all creatures hides the 

book of fate, 
All but the page prescribed, their present state : 



From brutes what men, from men what spirits 

know : 
Or who could suffer being here below ? 8° 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, 
And Ucks the hand just raised to shed his 

blood. 
Oh, blindness to the future ! kindly given, 85 
That each may fill the circle marked by 

Heaven : 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 
Atoms or systems into ruin hm-led. 
And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 90 
Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions 
soar ; 
Wait the great teacher Death ; and God 

adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know. 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 95 
Man never is, but alwa3^s to be blest. 
The soul, uneasy and confined from home. 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutored mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
His soul, proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; 102 

Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler 

Heaven ; 
Some safer world in depths of woods em- 
braced, 105 
Some happier island in the watery waste. 
Where slaves once more their native land be- 
hold, 
No fiends torment , no Christians thirst for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire, 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; no 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky. 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 



VII. Far as creation's ample range extends, 
The scale of sensual,^ mental power ascends. 
Mark how it mounts, to man's imperial race. 
From the green myriads in the peopled grass : 
What modes of sight betwixt each wide ex- 
treme, 211 
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam : 
Of smell, the headlong lioness between 
And hound sagacious on the tainted green : 



^ Pronounced sa-tel'-li-tes. 



^ belonging to the senses 



ALEXANDER POPE 



Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, 
To that which warbles through the vernal 

wood: 216 

The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine ! 
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line : 
In the nice ^ bee, what sense so subtly true 
From poisonous herbs extracts the healing 

dew? 220 

How instinct varies in the grovelling swine, 
Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with 

thine ! 
'Twixt that and reason, what a nice barrier, 
Forever separate, yet forever near ! 
Remembrance and reflection how allied ; 225 
What thin partitions sense from thought 

divide : 
And middle natures, how they long to join, 
Yet never pass th' insuperable line ! 
Without this just gradation, could they be 
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee ? 230 
The powers of all subdued by thee alone. 
Is not thy reason all these powers in one ? 



All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the 

same; 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame ; ^ 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 271 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives through all life, extends through all ex- 
tent. 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs oiir mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 276 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph ^ that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he boimds, connects, and equals all. 
X. Cease then, nor order imperfection 
name: 281 

Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point : this kind, this due 

degree 
Of blindness, weakness. Heaven bestows on 

thee. 
Submit. — In this, or any other sphere, 285 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; 

^ discriminating ^ the heavens ^ angels of 
flame 



All chance, direction, which thou canst not 

see; 
All discord, harmony not understood ; 291 
All partial evil, universal good : 
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 
One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. 



EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT 

P. Shut, shut the door, good John ! ^ fatigued, 

I said ? 
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. 
The Dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt, 
All Bedlam,^ or Parnassus,^ is let out : 
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 
They rave, recite, and madden round the land. 
What walls can guard me, or what shades 

can hide? 
They pierce my thickets, through my grot 

they glide ; 
By land, by water, they renew the charge, 
They stop the chariot, and they board the 

barge. 10 

No place is sacred, not the church is free ; 
E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me : 
Then from the Mint ^ walks forth the man of 

rhyme, 
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. 

Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, 15 
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 
A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, 
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross ? 
Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, 

scrawls 
With desperate charcoal roimd his darkened 

walls? 
AU fly to Twit 'nam ^ and in humble strain 21 
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. 
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, 
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the 

cause : 
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 25 
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. 

Friend to my life ! ^ (which did not you pro- 
long. 
The world had wanted many an idle song) 

^ Pope's servant " a hospital for lunatics 
' figuratively the abode of poets ^ a place in 
which insolvent debtors lived, free from arrest; 
on 'Sundays they could go anywhere without fear 
of arrest ^ Pope's villa at Twickenham, famous 
for its romantic garden and grotto '' Dr. Ar- 
buthnot 



EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT 



289 



What drop or nostrum can this plague re- 
move ? 

Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? 

A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped : 31 

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me 
dead. 

Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched 
I! 

Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. 



Why did I WTite ? what sin to me unknown 
Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own? 
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 127 
I lisped in numbers,^ for the numbers came. 
I left no calling for this idle trade. 
No duty broke, no father disobeyed. 130 

The Muse^ but served to ease some friend, 

not wife, 
To help me through this long disease, my life. 
To second, Arbuthnot ! thy art and care. 
And teach the being you preserved, to bear. 

But why then publish ? Granville the polite. 
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could 

write ; 136 

Well-natured Garth inflamed with early 

praise. 
And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my 

lays ; 
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; 
E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head. 
And St. John's self (great Dry den's friends 

before) 141 

With open arms received one poet more. 
Happy my studies, when by these approved ! 
Happier their author, when by these beloved ! 
From these the world will judge of men and 

books, 14s 

Not from the Burnets, OldmLxons, and 

Cookes. 
Soft were my numbers ; who could take 

offence 
Wliile pure description held the place of sense ? 
Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, 
A painted mistress, or a purling stream. 150 
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ; — 
I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. 
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ; 
I never answered — I was not in debt. 
If want provoked, or madness made them 

print, _ 155 

I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint. 
Did some more sober critic come aboard ; 

^ verses ^ poetry 



If wrong, I smiled ; if right, I kissed the rod. 
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, 
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. 
Commas and points they set exactly right, 161 
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite ; 
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these 

ribalds. 
From slashing Bentley down to piddling 

Tibbalds. 
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and 

spells, 165 

Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables. 
E'en such small critics some regard may claim. 
Preserved in Milton's or in Shakespeare's 

name. 
Pretty ! in amber to observe the forms 169 
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ! 
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, 
But wonder how the devil they got there. 

Were others angry : I excused them too ; 
Well might they rage, I gave them but their 

due. 
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find ; 175 
But each man's secret standard in his mind, — 
That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, — 
This, who can gratify? for who can guess? 
The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown. 
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, 180 
Just writes to make his barrenness appear, 
And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines 

a year ; 
He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, 
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing 

left; 
And he, who now to sense, now nonsense 

leaning, 185 

Means not, but blunders round about a mean- 
ing ; 
And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, 
It is not poetry, but prose run mad : 
All these, my modest satire bade translate, 189 
And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. 
» How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and 

chafe ! 
And swear, not Addison himself was safe. 
Peace to all such ! but were there one whose 

fires 
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ; 
Blessed with each talent and each art to 

please, 195 

And born to write, converse, and live with 

ease : 
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the 

throne, 198 



290 



ALEXANDER POPE 



View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes 
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; 
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, 
And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; 
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, 
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; 
Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, 205 
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ; 
Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, 
And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged ; 
Like Cato, give his little senate laws, 
And sit attentive to his own applause ; 210 
While wits and Templars every sentence raise. 
And wonder with a foohsh face of praise — • 
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ? 
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ! 



THE DUNCIAD 

From BOOK IV 

O Muse ! relate (for you can tell alone ; 
Wits have short memories, and dunces none) 
Relate, who first, who last resigned to rest, 
Whose heads she partly, whose completely, 

blest; 622 

What charms could faction, what ambition 

hdl, 
The venal quiet, and entrance the dull ; 
TiU drowned was sense, and shame, and right, 

and wrong — 625 

O sing, and hush the nations with thy song ! 

In vain, in vain — the all-composing hour 
Hesistless falls : the Muse obeys the power. 
She comes ! she comes ! the sable throne behold 
Of Night primeval and of Chaos old ! 630 
Before her. Fancy's gilded clouds decay, 
And all its varying rainbows die away. 
Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires. 
The meteor drops, and in a flash expires. 
As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,' 635 
The sickening stars fade off th' ethereal plain ; 
As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppressed. 
Closed one by one to everlasting rest : ^ 
Thus at her felt approach, and secret might, 
Art after art goes out, and all is night. 640 
See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled. 
Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head ! 
Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before, 
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. 

^ Cf. the incantations of Medea, as told by 
Gower. ^ See the story in Gayley, pp. 92-94. 



Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, 645 

And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense ! 
See Mystery to Mathematics fly 1 
In vain ! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. 
Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, 
And unawares Morality expires. 650 

Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine ; 
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine ! 
Lo ! thy dread empire. Chaos ! is restored ; 
Light dies before thy uncreating word : 
Thy hand, great Anarch ! lets the curtain 
faU; 65s 

And universal darkness buries all. 



THE ILIAD 
From BOOK VI 

The chief rephed: "That post shall be my 

care, 560 

Not that alone, but all the works of war. 
How would the sons of Troy, in arms re- 

nown'd, 
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments 

sweep the groimd. 
Attaint the lustre of my former name. 
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame ? 
My early youth was bred to martial pains, 
My soul impels me to th' embattled plains : 
Let me be foremost to defend the throne, 
And guard my father's glories and my o-v^m. 
Yet come it will, the da)^ decreed by fates, 
(How my heart trembles whUe my tongue 

relates !) 571 

The day when thou, imperial Troy ! must 

bend. 
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. 
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind. 
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, 
Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore. 
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, 
As thine, Andromache ! Thy griefs I dread : 
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, 
In Argive^ looms our battles to design, 580 
And woes of which so large a part was thine 1 
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring 
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring ! 
There, while you groan beneath the load of 

Hfe, 
They cry, 'Behold the mighty Hector's wife !' 
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to 

see. 
Embitters all thy woes by naming me. 

' Grecian 



JOHN GAY 



291 



The thoughts of glory past and present shame, 
A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name ! 
May I lie cold before that dreadful day, 590 
Press'd with a load of monumental clay ! 
Thy Hector, wrapp'd in everlasting sleep. 
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee 

weep." 
Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of 

Troy 
Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. 
The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, 
Scar'd at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. 
With secret pleasure each fond parent smil'd, 
And Hector hasted to relieve his child ; 599 
The gUttr'ing terrors from his brows unbound, 
And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground. 
Then kiss'd the child, and, lifting high in 

air, 
Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's pray'r : 
"O thou! whose glory fills th' ethereal 

throne, 
And all ye deathless pow'rs ! protect my son ! 
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, 
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown. 
Against his coimtry's foes the war to wage. 
And rise the Hector of the future age ! 
So when, triumphant from successful toils, 610 
Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, 
Whole hosts may hail him with deserv'd 

acclaim. 
And say, 'This chief transcends his father's 

fame ' : 
While pleas'd, amidst the gen'ral shouts of 

Troy, 
His mother's conscious heart o'erfiows with 

joy." 
He spoke, andtondly gazing on her charms, 
Restor'd the pleasing burthen to her arms ; 
Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, 
Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey 'd. 
The troubled pleasure soon chastis'd by fear. 
She mingled with the smile a tender tear. 621 
The soften'd chief with kind compassion 

view'd. 
And dried the falling drops, and thus pur- 
sued: 
"Andromache ! my soul's far better part. 
Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy 

heart ? 
No hostile hand can antedate my doom. 
Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. 
Fi.x'd is the term to all the race of earth. 
And such the hard condition of our birth. 
No force can then resist, no flight can save ; 
All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. 631 



No more — but hasten to thy tasks at home, 
There guide the spindle, and direct the loom ; 
Me glory summons to the martial scene. 
The field of combat is the sphere for men. 
Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, 
The first in danger as the first in fame." 



JOHN GAY (1685-1732) 

THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS 

Friendship, like love, is but a name. 

Unless to one you stint the flame. 

The child whom many fathers share, 

Hath seldom known a father's care. 

'Tis thus in friendship ; who depend 

On many rarely find a friend. 6 

A Hare, who, in a civil way. 
Complied with everything, like Gay, 
Was known by all the bestial train. 
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. 
Her care was, never to offend. 
And every creature was her friend. 1 2 

As forth she went at early dawn, 
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn. 
Behind she hears the hunter's cries. 
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. 
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath ; 
She hears the near advance of death ; 1 8 

She doubles, to mislead the homid, 
And measures back her mazy round : 
Till, fainting in the public way, 
Half dead with fear she gasping lay. 
What transport in her bosom grew, 
When first the Horse appeared in view ! 24 
"Let me," says she, "your back ascend, 
And owe my safety to a friend. 
You know my feet betray my flight ; 
To friendship every burden's light." 
The Horse replied : " Poor honest Puss, 
It grieves my heart to see thee thus ; 
Be comforted ; relief is near, 
For all your friends are in the rear." 32 

She next the stately Bull implored ; 
And thus replied the mighty lord, 
" Since every beast ahve can tell 
That I sincerely wish you well, 
I may, without offence, pretend. 
To take the freedom of a friend ; 38 

Love calls me hence ; a favourite cow 
Expects me near yon barley-mow : 
And when a lady's in the case. 
You know, all other things give place. 



292 



EDWARD YOUNG 



To leave you thus might seem unkind ; 
But see, the Goat is just behind." 

The Goat remarked her pulse was high, 
Her languid head, her heavy eye ; 
"My back," says he, "may do you harm; 
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." 48 

The Sheep was feeble, and complained 
His sides a load of wool sustained : 
Said he was slow, confessed his fears. 
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. 52 

She now the trotting Calf addressed, 
To save from death a friend distressed. 
"Shall I," says he, "of tender age, 
In this important care engage ? 
Older and abler passed you by ; 
How strong are those, how weak am I ! 
Should I presume to bear you hence, 
Those friends of mine may take offence. 
Excuse me, then. You know my heart. 
But dearest friends, alas, must part ! 62 

How shall we all lament ! Adieu ! 
For see, the hoimds are just in view." 



BLACK-EYED SUSAN 

All in the Downs ^ the fleet was moored, 
The streamers waving in the wind, 

When Black-eyed Susan came aboard, 
"Oh ! where shall I my true love find? 

Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, s 

If my sweet William sails among the crew?" 

William, who high upon the yard 

Rocked with the billow to and fro, 
Soon as her well-known voice he heard 

He sighed, and cast his eyes below : 10 

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing 

hands 
And, quick as lightning, on the deck he 
stands. 

So the sweet lark, high poised in air. 
Shuts close his pinions to his breast — 

If chance his mate's shrill call he hear — 15 
And drops at once into her nest. 

The noblest captain in the British fleet 

Might envy Wflham's lips those kisses sweet. 

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. 

My vows shall ever true remain ; 20 

Let me kiss off that falling tear ; 

We only part to meet again. 

^ Cf. above, p. 260 b, note 2. 



Change as ye list, ye winds ! my heart shall be 
The faithful compass that still points to thee. 

"Believe not what the landsmen say, 25 

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 

They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. 
In every port a mistress find ; 

Yes, yes, believe them when they teU thee so. 

For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 30 

"If to fair India's coast we sail. 
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright ; 

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. 
Thy skin is ivory so white. 

Thus every beauteous object that I vifew, 35 

Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 

"Though battle call me from thy arms. 
Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 

Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms, 
William shall to his dear return. 40 

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, 

Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's 
eye." 

The boatswain gave the dreadful word ; 

The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
No longer must she stay aboard ; 45 

They kissed — she sighed — he hung his 
head. 
Her lessening boat unwilhng rows to land, 
"Adieu !" she cries, and waved her lily hand. 



EDWARD YOUNG (1683-1765) 

From THE COMPLAINT, OR NIGHT 
THOUGHTS 

NIGHT I 

Man 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august. 
How complicate, how wonderful, is man ! 
How passing wonder He who made him such ! 
Who centred in our make such strange ex- 
tremes, 70 
From different natures marvellously mixed! 
Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! 
Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! 
Midway from nothing to the Deity ! 
A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt ! 
Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine ! 
Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! 



PROCRASTINATION 



293 



An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! 
Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! 
A worm ! a god ! — I tremble at myself, 80 
And in myself am lost ! At home a stranger, 
Thought wanders up and down, surprised, 

aghast, 
And wondering at her own. How reason 

reels ! 
O, what a miracle to man is man ! 
Triumphantly distressed ! What joy ! what 

dread ! 
Alternately transported and alarmed ! 
What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? 
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the 

grave ; 
Legions of angels can't confine me there. 



Procrastination 

By nature's law, what may be, may be now ; 
There's no prerogative in human hours. 371 
In human hearts what bolder thought can 

rise 
Than man's presumption on to-morrow's 

dawn? 
Where is to-morrow ? In another world. 
For numbers this is certain ; the reverse 
Is sure to none ; and yet on this 'perhaps,' 
This 'peradventure,' infamous for lies. 
As on a rock of adamant, we buQd 
Our mountain hopes, spin our eternal schemes, 
As ^ we the fatal sisters ^ could out-spin, 380 
And big with life's futurities, expire. 
Not e'en Philander ^ had bespoke his shroud, 
Nor had he cause ; a warning was denied : 
How many fall as sudden, not as safe ; 
As sudden, though for years admonish'd 

home ! 
Of human ills the last extreme beware ; 

^ as if 2 the Fates ' Young's son-in-law, 
Mr. Temple, who had died two years before 

AE 



Beware, Lorenzo,^ a slow sudden death. 
How dreadfi.ll that deliberate surprise ! 
Be wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer ; 
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 390 
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. 
Procrastination is the thief of time ; 
Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 
And to the mercies of a moment leaves 
The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 
If not so frequent, would not this be strange? 
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. 
Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears 
The palm, "That all men are about to live. 
Forever on the brink of being born." 400 

All pay themselves the compliment to think 
They one day shall not drivel : and their 

pride 
On this reversion takes up ready praise ; 
At least, their own; their future selves ap- 
plaud ; 
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead. 
Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's 

vails ; ^ 
That lodg'd in fate's to wisdom they consign. 
The thing they can't but purpose, they post- 
pone. 
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool. 
And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 410 
All promise is poor dilatory man. 
And that through every stage: when young, 

indeed, 
In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 
Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish. 
As duteous sons our fathers were more wise. 
At thirty man suspects himself a fool. 
Knows it at forty and reforms his plan ; 
At fifty chides his infamous delay. 
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
In all the magninimity of thought 420 

Resolves; and re-resolves ; then dies the same. 

1 probably the Duke of Wharton ^ folly's 
perquisite 



THE TRANSITION 



LADY WINCHILSEA (i 661-17 20) 
A NOCTURNAL REVERIE 

In such a night, when every louder wind 
Is to its distant cavern safe confin'd, 
And only gentle zephyr fans his wings, 
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings ; 
Or from some tree, fam'd for the owl's delight. 
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer 

right; 
In such a night, when passing clouds give 

place, 
Or thinly vail the Heav'ns mysterious face ; 
When in some river, overhimg with green, 
The waving moon and trembling leaves are 

seen ; 10 

When freshen'd grass now bears itself upright. 
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite. 
Whence springs the woodbind and the 

bramble-rose, 
And where the sleepy cowslip shelter'd grows ; 
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes. 
Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes ; 
When scatter'd glow-worms, but in twilight 

fine, 
Show trivial beauties watch their hour to 

shine. 
Whilst Salisb'ry ^ stands the test of every light 
In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright ; 20 
When odours which decUn'd repelling day 
Thro' temp'rate air uninterrupted stray ; 
When darken'd groves their softest shadows 

wear. 
And falling waters we distinctly hear ; 
When thro' the gloom more venerable shows 
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose, 
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks con- 
ceal 
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale ; 
When the loos'd horse now, as his pasture 

leads. 
Comes slowly grazing thro' th' adjoining 

meads, 30 

^ the Countess of Salisbury 



Whose stealing pace, and lengthen'd shade we 

fear, 
Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear ; 
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their 

food. 
And unmolested kine re-chew the cud ; 
Wlien curlews cry beneath the village-walls. 
And to her straggling brood the partridge 

calls ; 
Their shortliv'd jubilee the creatures keep, 
Which but endures whilst tyrant-man does 

sleep ; 
When a sedate content the spirit feels. 
And no fierce light disturb, whilst it reveals ; 
But silent musings urge the mind to seek 41 
Something too high for syllables to speak ; 
Till the free soul to a compos'dness charm'd. 
Finding the elements of rage disarm'd, 
O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, 
Joys in th' inferior world and thinks it like her 

own : 
In such a night let me abroad remain' 
TUl morning breaks and all's confus'd again ; 
Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renew'd, 
Or pleasures, seldom reach'd, again pursu'd. 50 



ROBERT BLAIR (1699-1746) 

From THE GRAVE 

While some affect the sun, and some the shade, 
Some flee the city, some the hermitage, 
Their aims as various as the roads they take 
In journeying through life ; the task be mine 
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; 
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all 
These travellers meet. Thy succours I im- 
plore, 
Eternal King ! whose potent arm sustains 
The keys of hell and death. — The Grave, 
dread thing ! 9 

Men shiver when thou'rt nam'd : Nature, 

appall'd, 
Shakes off her wonted firmness. — All ! how 
dark 



294 



THE GRAVE 



295 



Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes ! 
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, 

dark night, 
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roU'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. — The sickly 

taper 
By glimmering through thy low-brow'd misty 

vaults, 
(Furr'd round with mouldy damps and ropy 

slime) 
Lets fall a supernumerary horror, 
And only serves to make thy night more 

irksome. 20 

Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew. 
Cheerless, unsocial plant ! that loves to dwell 
JVIidst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms : 
WTiere light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary 

shades, 
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) 
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds. 
No other merriment, dull tree ! is thine. 

See yonder hallow'd fane ; — the pious work 
Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot, 
And buried midst the wreck of things which 

were ; 30 

There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. 
The v/ind is up : hark ! how it howls ! Me- 

thinks 
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary : 
Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's 

fovd bird, 
Rook'd ^ in the spire, screams loud : the gloomy 

aisles, 
Black-plaster'd, and hung round with shreds 

of 'scutcheons 
And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the 

sound 
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, 
The mansions of the dead. — Rous'd from 

their slumbers. 
In grim array the grisly spectres rise, 40 

Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen. 
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. 
Again the screech-owl shrieks : ungracious 

sound ! 
I'll hear no more ; it makes one's blood run 

chUl. 
Quite round the pile, a row of reverend 

elms, 
(Coeval near with that) all ragged show. 
Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half 

down 



Their branchless trunks ; others so thin a-top, 
That scarce two crows could lodge in the same 

tree. 
Strange things, the neighbours say, have 

happen'd here : 50 

Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow 

tombs : 
Dead men have come again, and walk'd 

about ; 
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, un- 

touch'd. 
(Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossiping. 
When it draws near the witching time of 

night.) 
Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've 

seen. 
By glimpse of moonshine chequering through 

the trees. 
The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand, 
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, 
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, 
(With nettles skirted, and vfith moss o'er- 

grown,) 61 

That tell in homely phrase who lie below. 
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he 

hears. 
The sound of something purring at his heels ; 
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind 

him. 
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows ; 
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale 
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, 
That walks at dead of night, or takes his 

stand 
O'er some new-open'd grave ; and (strange to 

tell !) 70 

Evanishes at crowing of the cock. 

The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes 

'spied. 
Sad sight ! slow moving o'er the prostrate 

dead : 
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black. 
Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either 

eye. 
Fast falling down her now untasted cheek : 
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man 
She drops ; whilst busy, meddling memory. 
In barbarous succession musters up 79 

The past endearments of their softer hours. 
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks 
She sees him, and indulging the fond thought, 
CUngs yet more closely to the senseless turf. 
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way. 



^ perched, as roosting 



296 



JAMES THOMSON 



JAMES THOMSON (i 700-1 748) 

THE SEASONS 

A SNOW SCENE 

From Winter 

The keener tempests come : and fuming 
dmi 
From all the livid east, or piercing north, 
Thick clouds ascend — in whose capacious 

womb 
A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed. 
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ; 
And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. 
Through the hushed air the whitening shower 

descends. 
At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the 
day 231 

With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
Put on their winter-robe of purest white. 
'Tis brightness all ; save where the new snow 

melts 
Along the mazy current. Low, the woods 
Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun 
Faint from the west emits his evening ray, 
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill. 
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer- 
ox 240 
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then de- 
mands 
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven. 
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon 
Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods. 
Wisely regardful of the embrofling sky. 
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first 250 
Against the window beats ; then, brisk, 

alights 
On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the 

floor, 
Eyes all the smiling family askance, 
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he 

is — 
Tfll, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 
Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The 

hare, 
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 



By death in various forms, dark snares, and 
dogs, 

And more unpitying men, the garden seeks. 

Urged on by fearless want. The bleating 
kind 261 

Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening 
earth 

With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dis- 
persed. 

Dig for the withered herb through heaps of 



THE SHEEP-WASHING 

From Summer 

Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band, 
They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog 
Compelled, to where the mazy-rvmning brook 
Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and 

high. 
And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. 
Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil. 
The clamour much, of men, and boys, and 

dogs, 
Ere the soft, fearful people to the flood 
Commit their woolly sides. And oft the 

swain, 
On some impatient seizing, hurls them in : 380 
Emboldened then, nor hesitating more, 
Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave. 
And panting labour to the farther shore. 
Repeated this, tfll deep the well-washed fleece 
Has drunk the flood, and from his lively 

haunt 
The trout is banishe'd by the sordid stream ; 
Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow 
Slow move the harmless race ; where, as they 

spread 
Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, 
Inly disturbed, and wondering what this wfld 
Outrageous tumult means, their loud com- 
plaints 391 
The country fill — and, tossed from rock to 

rock. 
Incessant bleatings run around the hills. 
At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks 
Are in the wattled pen innumerous pressed. 
Head above head ; and ranged in lusty rows 
The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding 

shears. 
The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores, 
With all her gay-drest maids attending round. 
One, chief, in gracious dignity enthroned, 400 



THE SEASONS 



297 



Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and 

rays 
Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd- 
king ; 
While the glad circle round them yield their 

souls 
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. 
Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace : 
Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some. 
Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side, 
To stamp his master's cypher ready stand ; 
Others the unwillmg wether drag along ; 409 
And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy 
Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram. 
Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft. 
By needy man, that all-depending lord, 
How meek, how patient, the mild creature 

lies ! 
What softness in its melancholy face, 
What dumb complaining innocence appears ! 
Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife 
Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved ; 
No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears. 
Who having now, to pay his annual care, 420 
Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, 
Will send you bounding to your hills again. 



THE COMING OF THE RAIN 

From Spring 

At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise. 
Scarce staining ether ; but by fast degrees. 
In heaps on heaps, the doubhng vapour sails 
Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, 150 
Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom : 
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed. 
Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind. 
And full of every hope and every joy. 
The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the 

breeze 
Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath 
Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, 
Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves 
Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused 
In glassy breadth, seem through delusive 

lapse 
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, 161 
And pleasing expectation. Flerds and flocks 
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye 
The fallen verdure. Hushed in short suspense 
The plumy people streak their wings with oil. 
To throw the lucid moisture triclding off ; 
And wait the approaching sign to strike, at 

once, 



Into the general choir. Even mountains, 

vales. 
And forests seem, impatient, to demand 
The promised sweetness. Man superior 

walks 1 70 

Amid the glad creation, musing praise. 
And looking lively gratitude. At last. 
The clouds consign their treasures to the 

fields ; 
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool 
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow. 
In large effusion, o'er the freshened world. 

STORM IN HARVEST 

From Autumn 

Defeating oft the labours of the year. 
The sultry south collects a potent blast. 
At first, the groves are scarcely seen to stir 
Their trembling tops, and a still murmur runs 
Along the soft-inclining fields of corn ; 
But as the aerial tempest fuller swells, 
And in one mighty stream, invisible. 
Immense, the whole excited atmosphere 
Impetuous rushes o'er the sounding world. 
Strained to the root, the stooping forest pours 
A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. 321 
High-beat, the circling moimtains eddy in, 
From the bare wild, the dissipated storm. 
And send it in a torrent down the vale. 
Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage. 
Through all the sea of harvest rolling round. 
The billo^vy plain floats wide ; nor can evade, 
Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force — 
Or whirled in air, or into vacant chaff 329 
Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of 

rain. 
Swept from the black horizon, broad, descends 
In one continuous flood. Still over head 
The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and 

stiU 
The deluge deepens ; till the fields around 
Lie sunk, and flatted, in the sordid wave. 
Sudden, the ditches swell ; the meadows 

swim. 
Red, from the hills, innumerable streams 
Tumultuous roar ; and high above its banks 
The river lift ; before whose rushing tide, 
Herds, flocks, and harvests, cottages, and 

swains, 340 

RoU mingled down : all that the winds had 

spared, 
In one wild moment ruined ; the big hopes, 
And well-earned treasures of the painful year. 



298 



JAMES THOMSON 



Fled to some eminence, the husbandman, 
Helpless, beholds the miserable wreck 
Driving along ; his drowning ox at once 
Descending, v/ith his labours scattered round. 
He sees ; and instant o'er his shivering thought 
Comes Winter unprovided, and a train 
Of clamant children dear. Ye masters, then, 
Be mindful of the rough laborious hand 351 
That sinks you soft in elegance and ease ; 
Be mmdful of those limbs, in russet ^ clad, 
Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful 

pride ; 
And, oh, be mindful of that sparing board 
Which covers yours with luxury profuse, 
Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense 

rejoice ! 
Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains 
And all-involving winds have swept away. 



From THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side 10 

With woody hill o'er hiU encompassed 

round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide, 
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere 

found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
And there a season atween June and May, 
Half prankt with spring, with summer half 

imbrowned, 
A listless cUmate made, where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, ne cared for play. 

Was nought around but images of rest : 

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns be- 
tween ; 20 

And flowery beds, that slmnbrous influence 
kest,^ 

From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleas- 
ant green, 

Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 

Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets 
played, 

And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 

That, as they bickered through the sunny 
glade. 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling mur- 
mur made. 

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills. 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 



And flocks loud-bleating from the distant 
hills, 30 

And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : 
And now and then sweet Philomel would 

wail, 
Or stock-doves plain ^ amid the forest deep. 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 
And still a coil^ the grasshopper did keep: 
Yet all the sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ; 
Where nought but shadowy forms were seen 

to move, 
As Idless ^ fancied in her dreaming mood : 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 41 
Of blackening pines, aye v/aving to and fro, 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the 

blood ; 
And where this valley winded out below. 
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely 

heard, to flow. 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was : 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut 

eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer-sky. 
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the 

breast, 51 

And the calm pleasures, always hovered 

nigh; 
But whate'er smackt of noyance, or unrest. 
Was far, far off expelled from this delicious 

nest. 

The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease. 
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees, 
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus 

bright. 
And made a kind of checkered day and 

night. 
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, 60 
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight 
Was placed ; and to his lute, of cruel fate 
And labour harsh, complained, lamenting 

man's estate. 

Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, 
From all the roads of earth that pass there 
by: 



undyed homespun - cast 



^ complain ^ disturbance ' Idleness 



THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 



299 



For, as they chanced to breathe on neigh- 
bouring hill, 
The freshness of this valley smote their eye, 
And drew them ever and anon more nigh ; 
Till clustering round the enchanter false 

they hung, 
Ymolten with his syren melody ; 70 

While o'er the enfeebling lute his hand he 
flung. 
And to the trembling chords these tempting 
verses sung : 

"Behold ! ye pilgrims of this earth, behold ! 

See all but man with unearned pleasure gay : 

See her bright robes the butterfly unfold, 

Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of 
May! 

What youthful bride can equal her array? 

Who can with her for easy pleasure vie ? 

From mead to mead with gentle wing to 
' stray, 

From flower to flower on balmy gales to 
fly, 80 

Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 

"Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, 

The swarming songsters of the careless^ 
grove ; 

Ten thousand throats that, from the flower- 
ing thorn. 

Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of 
love. 

Such grateful kindly raptures them emove !^ 

They neither plough, nor sow ; ne,^ fit for 
flafl. 

E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they 
drove ; 

Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, 

Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the 

vale. 90 

"Outcast of Nature, man! the wretched 

thrall 
Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain. 
Of cares that eat away the heart with gall, 
And of the vices, an inhuman train. 
That all proceed from savage thirst of gain : 
For when hard-hearted Interest first began 
To poison earth, Astra^a * left the plain ; 
Guile, Violence, and Murder, seized on man, 
And, for soft milky streams, with blood the 

rivers ran. • 99 

^ care-free ^ move ^ nor ^ the goddess of jus- 
tice, who in the Golden Age dwelt among men 



"Come, ye who still the cumbrous load of 

life 
Push hard up-hill; but as the farthest 

steep 
You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, 
Down thunders back the stone with mighty 

sweep, 
And hurls your labours to the vaUey deep, 
Forever vain : come, and, withouten fee, 
I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, 
Your cares, your toils ; will steep you in a 

sea 
Of fuU delight : O come, ye weary wights, to 

me ! 

"With me, you need not rise at early dawn, 
To pass the joyless day in various stounds ; ^ 
Or louting ^ low, on upstart Fortune fawn. 
And sell fair Honour for some paltry 
pounds ; 112 

Or through the city take your dirty rounds, 
To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay. 
Now flattering base, now giving secret 

wovmds ; 
Or prowl in courts of law for human prey. 
In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad high- 
way. 

"No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call, 
From village on to village sounding clear ; 
To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons 

squall; 120 

No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your 

ear; 
No hammers thump ; no horrid blacksmith 

sear ; 
Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers 

start 
With sounds that are a misery to hear ; 
But all is calm, — as would delight the 

heart 
Of Sybarite of old, — all Nature, and all Art. 



"The best of men have ever loved repose : 
They hate to mingle in the filthy fray ; 
Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour 

grows. 
Embittered more from peevish day to day, 
Even those whom Fame has lent her fairest 

ray, 
The most renowned of worthy wights of 

yore, 150 



^ griefs 



2 bowing 



300 



JOHN DYER 



From a base world at last have stolen away : 
So Scipio, to the soft Cumaean shore ^ 
Retiring, tasted joy he never knew before. 

"But if a little exercise you choose, 
Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. 
Amid the groves you may indulge the 

Muse, 
Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal 

year; 
Or, softly stealing, with yovir watery gear,^ 
Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry 
You may delude ; the whilst, amused, you 

hear i6o 

Now the hoarse stream, and now the 

Zephyr's sigh. 
Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody, 

"O grievous folly ! to heap up estate. 

Losing the days you see beneath the sun ; 

When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting 
Fate, 

And gives the un tasted portion you have 
won, 

With ruthless toil and many a wretch un- 
done. 

To those who mock you gone to Pluto's 
reign, _ 

There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows 
dun ; 

But sure it is of vanities most vain, 170 
To toil for what you here untoUing may 
obtain." 



RULE, BRITANNIA 

From ALFRED, A MASQUE 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 

Arose from out the azure main. 
This was the charter of the land, 

And guardian angels sang this strain : 
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ! 
Britons never will be slaves ! 

The nations not so blest as thee, 
Must in their turns to tyrants fall, 

Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free. 
The dread and envy of them all. 10 

Rule, Britannia, etc. 

^ Scipio Africanus, the elder, retired from the 
intrigues of Rome to his country place near 
Cumae on the Italian coast. ^ fishing tackle 



Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; 

As the loud blast that tears the skies. 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 
Rule, Britannia, etc. 

Thee haughty t3^rants ne'er shall tame ; 

All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 

But work their woe and thy renown. 20 
Rule, Britannia, etc. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shaU with commerce shine ; 
All thine shall be the subject main,^ 

And every shore it circles thine. 
Rule, Britannia, etc. 

The Muses, stilP with freedom, found. 
Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 

Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned. 
And manly hearts to guard the fair ! 30 
Rule, Britannia, etc. 



JOHN DYER (i7oo?-i758) 
From GRONGAR HILL^ 

Silent Nymph, with curious eye, 

Who, the purple evening, lie 

On the mountain's lonely van,* 

Beyond the noise of busy man. 

Painting fair the form of things, 

While the yellow linnet sings ; 

Or the trmeful nightingale 

Charms the forest with her tale ; 

Come with all thy various hues, 

Come, and aid thy sister Muse; 10 

Now while Phoebus riding high 

Gives lustre to the land and sky ! 

Grongar Hill invites my song, 

Draw the landskip * bright and strong ; 

Grongar, in whose mossy cells 

Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 

Grongar, in whose silent shade, 

For the modest Muses made, 

So oft I have, the evening still. 

At the fountain of a rill, 20 

Sate upon a flowery bed. 

With my hand beneath my head ; 

^ ocean ^ always ^ a hill in southwest Wales 
^ peak ^ of. L' Allegro, I. 70 



DAVID MALLET 



301 



While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's ^ flood, 
Over mead, and over wood, 
From house to house, from hill to hill, 
'TUl Contemplation had her fill. 

About his chequered sides I wind, 
And leave his brooks and meads behind, 
And groves, and grottoes where I lay, 
And vistas shooting beams of day : 30 

Wide and wider spreads the vale ; 
As circles on a smooth canal : 
The momitains round, unhappy fate ! 
Sooner or later, of all height. 
Withdraw their summits from the skies, 
And lessen as the others rise : 
Still the prospect wider spreads, 
Adds a thousand woods and meads. 
Still it widens, widens still. 
And sinks the newly-risen hill. 40 

Now, I gain the mountain's brow. 
What a landskip lies below ! 
No clouds, no vapours intervene, 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of nature show, 
In all the hues of heaven's bow ! 
And, swelling to embrace the light. 
Spreads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise. 
Proudly towering in the skies ; 50 

Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires ; 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads. 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks. 
And glitters on the broken rocks. 

Below me trees unnumbered rise. 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue. 
The yellow beach, the sable yew, 60 

The slender fir, that taper grows. 
The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs ; 
And beyond the purple grove, 
Haunt of Phillis, queen of love. 
Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
Lies a long and level lawn 
On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
Holds and charms the wandering eye. 
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood, . 
His sides are cloth'd with waving wood, 70 
And ancient towers crown his brow, 
That cast an aweful look below ; 
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. 
And with her arms from falling keeps ; 

^ a river that flows into Carmarthen Bay in 
southwest Wales 



So both a safety from the wind 
On mutual dependence find. 

DAVID MALLET (i 705-1 765) 

WILLIAM AND MARGARET 

'Twas at the silent solemn hour, 

When night and morning meet ; 
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, 

And stood at Wflliam's feet. 4 

Her face was like an April morn 

Clad in a wintry cloud ; 
And clay-cold was her Ifly hand 

That held her sable shroud. 8 

So shall the fairest face appear, 
When youth and years are flown : 

Such is the robe that kings must wear. 

When death has reft their crown. 12 

Her bloom was like the springing flower, 

That sips the silver dew ; 
The rose was budded in her cheek. 

Just opening to the view. 16 

But love had, like the canker-worm, 

Consumed her early prime ; 
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek. 

She died before her time. 20 

"Awake !" she cried, "thy true love calls. 

Come from her midnight grave : 
Now let thy pity hear the maid 

Thy love refused to save. 24 

"This is the dark and dreary hour 

When injured ghosts complain ; 
When yawning graves give up their dead, 

To haunt the faithless swain. 28 

"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, 

Thy pledge and broken oath ! 
And give me back my maiden vow, 

And give me back my troth. 32 

"Why did you promise love to me. 

And not that promise keep? 
Why did you swear my eyes were bright, 

Yet leave those eyes to w^eep? 36 

"How could you say my face was fair, 
And yet that face forsake ? 



302 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 



How could you win my virgin heart, 
Yet leave that heart to break? 

■"Why did you say my lip was sweet. 
And make the scarlet pale ? 

And why did I, young, witless maid ! 
Believe the flattering tale? 

^'That face, alas ! no more is fair, 

Those lips no longer red : 
Dark are my eyes, now dosed in death, 

And every charm is fled. 

^'The hungry worm my sister is ; 

This winding-sheet I wear : 
And cold and weary lasts our night. 

Till that last morn appear. 



40 



44 



52 



*'But hark ! the cock has warned me hence ; 

A long and last adieu ! 
Come see, false man, how low she lies, 

Who died for love of you." 56 

The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled 

With beams of rosy red : 
Pale William quaked in every limb, 

And raving left his bed. 60 

He hied him to the fatal place 

Where Margaret's body lay ; 
And stretched him on the green-grass turf 

That wrapt her breathless clay. 64 

And thrice he called on Margaret's name, 

And thrice he wept full sore ; 
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, 

And word spake never more ! 

68 

SAMUEL JOHNSON (i 709-1 784) 
CONGREVE 

William Congreve descended from a family 
in Staffordshire, of so great antiquitj' that it 
claims a place among the few that extend their 
line beyond the Norman Conquest ; and was 
the son of William Congreve, second son of 
Richard Congreve, of Congreve and Stratton. 
He visited, once at least, the residence of his 
ancestors ; and, I believe, more places than 
one are still shown, in groves and gardens, 
where he is related to have written his "Old 
Bachelor." 

Neither the time nor place of his birth are 



certamly known ; if the inscription upon his 
monument be true, he was born in 1672. For 
the place ; it was said by himself, that he owed 
his nativity to England, and by every body 
else that he was born in Ireland. Southern 
mentioned him with sharp censure, as a man 
that meanly disowned his native country. 
The biographers assign his nativity to Bardsa, 
near Leeds in Yorkshire, from the account 
given by himself, as they suppose, to Jacob. ^ 

To doubt whether a man of eminence has 
told the truth about his own birth, is, in ap- 
pearance, to be very deficient in candour ; yet 
nobody can live long without knowing that 
falsehoods of convenience or vanity, false- 
hoods from which no evil immediately visible 
ensues, except the general degradation of hu- 
man testimony, are very lightly uttered, and 
once uttered are sullenly supported. Boileau, 
who desired to be thought a rigorous and 
steady moralist, having told a petty lie to 
Lewis XIV, continued it afterwards by false 
dates; "thinking himself obliged in honour," 
says his admirer, "to maintain what, when he 
said it, was so well received." 

Wherever Congreve was born, he was edu- 
cated first at Kilkenny, and afterwards at 
Dublin, his father having some military em- 
ployment that stationed him in Ireland : but, 
after having passed through the usual pre- 
paratory studies, as may be reasonably sup- 
posed, with great celerity and success, his 
father thought it proper to assign him a pro- 
fession, by which something might be gotten ; 
and about the time of the Revolution sent 
him, at the age of sixteen, to study law in the 
Middle Temple,^ where he lived for several 
years, but with very little attention to Statutes 
or Reports. 

His disposition to become an author ap- 
peared very early, as he very early felt that 
force of imagination, and possessed that 
copiousness of sentiment, by which intellec- 
tual pleasure can be given. His first per- 
formance was a novel, called "Incognita, or 
Love and Duty reconciled:" it is praised 
by the biographers, who quote some part of 
the Preface, that is, indeed, for such a time 
of life, uncommonly judicious. I would rather 
praise it than read it. 

His first dramatic labour was "The Old 
Bachelor;" of which he says, in his defence 

^ Giles Jacob, compiler of the Poetical Register, 
an account of poets ^ in London 



CONGREVE 



303 



against Collier/ "that the comedy was written, 
as several know, some years before it was 
acted. When I wrote it, I had little thoughts 
of the stage ; but did it to amuse myself in a 
slow recovery from a fit of sickness. After- 
wards, through my indiscretion, it was seen, 
and in some little time more it was acted; 
and I, through the remainder of my indis- 
cretion, suffered myself to be drawn into the 
prosecution of a difficult and thankless study, 
and to be involved in a perpetual war with 
knaves and fools." 

There seems to be a strange affectation in 
authors of appearing to have done every thing 
by chance. "The Old Bachelor" was written 
for amusement in the languor of convales- 
cence. Yet it is apparently composed with 
great elaborateness of dialogue, and incessant 
ambition of \'\'it. The age of the writer con- 
sidered, it is indeed a very wonderful per- 
formance ; for, whenever written, it was acted 
(1693) when he was not more than twenty- 
one years old ; and was then recommended 
by Mr. Dryden, Mr. Southern,^ and Mr. Mayn- 
waring.^ Dryden said that he never had seen 
such a first play ; but they found it deficient 
in some things requisite to the success of its 
exhibition, and by their greater experience 
fitted it for the stage. Southern used to relate 
of one comedy, probably of this, that, when 
Congreve read it to the players, he pronounced 
it so wretchedly, that they had almost rejected 
it ; but they were afterwards so well per- 
suaded of its excellence, that, for half a year 
before it was acted, the manager allowed its 
author the privilege of the house. 

Few plays have ever been so beneficial to 
the writer ; for it procured him the patronage 
of Halifax,'^ who immediately made him one of 
the commissioners for licensing coaches, and 
soon after gave him a place in the pipe-office,* 
and another in the customs of six himdred 
pounds a year. Congreve's conversation 
must surely have been at least equally pleas- 
ing with his writings. 

Such a comedy, written at such an age, re- 
quires some consideration. As the lighter 
species of dramatic poetry professes the imi- 
tation of common life, of real manners, and 

^ Jeremy Collier ; see below ^ a well-known 
dramatist ^ a Templar and influential man of 
letters ^ George Savile, Marquis of Halifax * a 
government office in which records called pipe- 
rolls were kept 



daily incidents, it apparently presupposes a 
familiar knowledge of many characters, and 
exact observation of the passing world ; the 
difi'iculty therefore is, to conceive how this 
knowledge can be obtained by a boy. 

But if "The Old Bachelor" be more nearly 
examined, it will be found to be one of those 
comedies which may be made by a mind vigor- 
ous and acute, and furnished with comic char- 
acters by the perusal of other poets, without 
much actual commerce with mankind. The 
dialogue is one constant reciprocation of con- 
ceits, or clash of wit, in which nothing flows 
necessarily from the occasion or is dictated 
by nature. The characters both of men and 
women are either fictitious and artificial, as 
those of Heartwell and the Ladies ; or easy 
and common, as Wittol a tame idiot. Bluff a 
swaggering coward, and Fondlewife a jealous 
puritan ; and the catastrophe arises from a 
mistake not very probably produced, by 
marrying a woman in a mask. 

Yet this gay comedy, when all these deduc- 
tions are made, will still remain the work of 
very powerful and fertile faculties ; the dia- 
logue is qiiick and sparkling, the incidents 
such as seize the attention, and the wit so 
exuberant that it "o'er-informs its tenement."^ 

Next year he gave another specimen of his 
abilities in "The Double Dealer," which was 
not received with equal kindness. He writes 
to his patron the lord Halifax a dedication, in 
which he endeavours to reconcile the reader 
to that which found few friends among the 
audience. These apologies are always use- 
less : "de gustibus non est disputandum ; " ^ 
men may be convmced, but they cannot be 
pleased, against their will. But, though taste 
is obstinate, it is very variable : and time often 
prevails when arguments have failed. 

Queen Mary conferred upon both those 
plays the honour of her presence ; and when 
she died soon after, Congi-eve testified his 
gratitude by a despicable eft'usion of elegiac 
pastoral; a composition in which all is un- 
natural, and yet nothing is new. 

In another year (1695) his prolific pen pro- 
duced "Love for Love;" a comedy of nearer 
alliance to life, and exhibiting more real 
manners than either of the former. The char- 
acter of Foresight^ was then common. Dry- 
den calculated nativities ; both Cromwell and 

^ cf. Absalom and AchUophel, 1. 74 ^ tastes are 
not a subject for argument ^ an astrologer 



304 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 



King William had their lucky days; and 
Shaftesbury himself, though he had no reli- 
gion, was said to regard predictions. The 
Sailor is not accounted very natural, but he 
is very pleasant. 

With this play was opened the New Thea- 
tre, under the direction of Betterton the trage- 
dian ; where he exhibited two years after- 
wards (1687) "The Mournmg Bride," a 
tragedy, so written as to show him sufficiently 
qualified for either kind of dramatic poetry. 

In this play, of which, when he afterwards 
revised it, he reduced the versification to 
greater regularity, there is more bustle than 
sentiment ; the plot is busy and intricate, and 
the events take hold on the attention; but, 
except a very few passages, we are rather 
amused with noise, and perplexed with strata- 
gem, than entertained with any true delinea- 
tion of natural characters. This, however, 
was received with more benevolence than any 
other of his works, and still continues to be 
acted and applauded. 

But whatever objections may be made either 
to his comic or tragic excellence, they are lost 
at once in the blaze of admiration; when it is 
remembered that he had produced these four 
plays before he had passed his twenty-fifth 
year, before other men, even such as are some- 
time to shine in eminence, have passed their 
probation of literature, or presume to hope 
for any other notice than such as is bestowed 
on diligence and inquiry. Among all the 
efforts of early genius which literary history 
records, I doubt whether any one can be 
produced that more surpasses the common 
limits of nature than the plays of Congreve. 

About this time began the long-continued 
controversy between Collier and the poets. 
In the reign of Charles the First the Puritans 
had raised a violent clamour against the drama, 
which they considered as an entertainment 
not lawful to Christians, an opinion held by 
them in common with the church of Rome; 
and Prynne published "Histriomastix," a huge 
volume, in which stage-plays were censured. 
The outrages and crimes of the Puritans 
brought afterwards their whole system of doc- 
trine into disrepute, and from the Restoration 
the poets and players were left at quiet ; for 
to have molested them would have had the 
appearance of tendency to puritanical malig- 
nity. 

This danger, however, was worn away by 
time ; and Collier, a fierce and implacable 



Nonjuror,^ knew that an attack upon the thea- 
tre would never make him suspected for a 
Puritan; he therefore (1698) published "A 
short View of the Immorality and Profaneness 
of the English Stage," I believe with no other 
motive than religious zeal and honest indig- 
nation. He was formed for a controvertist ; 
with sufiicient learning; with diction vehe- 
ment and pointed, though often vulgar and 
incorrect ; with unconquerable pertinacity ; 
with wit in the highest degree keen and sar- 
castic ; and with aU those powers, exalted and 
invigorated by just confidence in his cause. 

Thus qualified, and thus incited, he walked 
out to battle, and assailed at once most of the 
living writers, from Dryden to D'Urfey.^ His 
onset was violent ; those passages, which, 
while they stood single had passed with little 
notice, when they were accumulated and ex- 
posed together, excited horror; the wise and 
the pious caught the alarm ; and the nation 
wondered why it had so long suffered irre- 
ligion and licentiousness to be openly taught 
at the public charge. 

Nothing now remained for the poets but 
to resist or fly. Dryden's conscience, or his 
prudence, angry as he was, withheld him from 
the conflict : Congreve and Vanbrugh at- 
tempted answers. Congreve, a very young 
man, elated with success, and impatient of 
censure, assumed an air of confidence and se- 
curity. His chief artifice of controversy is to 
retort upon his adversary his own words ; he 
is very angry, and, hoping to conquer Collier 
with his own weapons, allows himself ui the 
use of every term of contumely and contempt ; 
but he has the sword without the arm of 
Scanderbeg; he has his antagonist's coarse- 
ness, but not his strength. CoUier replied; 
for contest was his dehght, he was not to be 
frighted from his purpose or his prey. 

The cause of Congreve was not tenable; 
whatever glosses he might use for the defence 
or palliation of single passages, the general 
tenor and tendency of his plays must always 
be condemned. It is acknowledged, with uni- 
versal conviction, that the perusal of his works 
will make no man better ; and that their ulti- 
mate effect is to represent pleasure in aUiance 
with vice, and to relax those obhgations by 
which life ought to be regulated. 

1 one who in 1689 refused to swear allegiance 
to William and Mary as king and queen ^ Tom 
D'Urfey, a disreputable writer 



CONGREVE 



305 



The stage found other advocates, and the 
dispute was protracted through ten years : but 
at last Comedy grew more modest ; and Col- 
her lived to see the reward of his labour in the 
reformation of the theatre. 

Of the powers by which this important vic- 
tory was achieved, a quotation from "Love 
for Love," and the remark upon it, may afford 
a specimen : 

''Sir Samps. Sampson's a very good name ; 
for your Sampsons were strong dogs from the 
beginning. 

''Angel. Have a care — If you remember, 
the strongest Sampson of your name puU'd 
an old house over his head at last." 

Here you have the Sacred History bur- 
lesqued ; and Sampson once more brought 
into the house of Dagon, to make sport for 
the Philistines. 

Congreve's last play was "The Way of the 
World;" which, though as he hints in his 
dedication it was written with great labour 
and much thought, was received with so little 
favour, that, being in a high degree offended 
and disgusted, he resolved to commit his quiet 
and his fame no more to the caprices of an 
audience. 

From this time his life ceased to the public ; 
he lived for himself and for his friends ; and 
among his friends was able to name every 
man of his time whom wit and elegance had 
raised to reputation. It may be therefore 
reasonably supposed that his manners were 
polite, and his conversation pleasing. 

He seems not to have taken much pleasure 
in writing, as he contributed nothing to the 
Spectator, and only one paper to the Tatler, 
though published by men with whom he might 
be supposed willing to associate ; and though 
he lived many years after the publication of 
his "Miscellaneous Poems," yet he added 
nothing to them, but lived on in literary indo- 
lence ; engaged in no controversy, contending 
with no rival, neither soliciting flattery by 
public commendations, nor provoking enmity 
by malignant criticism, but passing his time 
among the great and splendid, in the placid 
enjoyment of his fame and fortune. 

Having owed his fortune to Hahfax, he con- 
tinued always of his patron's party, but, as 
it seems, without violence or acrimony ; and 
his firmness was naturally esteemed, as his 
abilities were reverenced. His security there- 
fore was never violated; and when, upon the 
extrusion of the Whigs, some intercession was 



used lest Congreve should be displaced, the 
earl of Oxford made this answer : 

"Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Poeni, 
Nee tarn aversus equosTyria sol jungit ab urbe." ^ 

He that was thus honoured by the adverse 
party might naturally expect to be advanced 
when his friends returned to power, and he 
was accordingly made secretary for the island 
of Jamaica ; a place, I suppose, without trust 
or care, but which, with his post in the cus- 
toms, is said to have afforded him twelve hun- 
dred pounds a year. 

His honours were yet far greater than his 
profits. Every writer mentioned him with 
respect ; and, among other testimonies to his 
merit, Steele made him the patron of his Mis- 
cellany, and Pope inscribed to him his trans- 
lation of the Iliad. 

But he treated the Muses with ingratitude ; 
for, having long conversed familiarly with the 
great, he wished to be considered rather as a 
man of fashion than of wit ; and, when he 
received a visit from Voltaire, disgusted him 
by the despicable foppery of desiring to be 
considered not as an author but a gentleman ; 
to which the Frenchman replied, "that, if he 
had been only a gentleman, he should not have 
come to visit him." 

In his retirement he may be supposed to 
have applied himself to books ; for he dis- 
covers more literature than the poets have 
commonly attained. But his studies were in 
his latter days obstructed by cataracts in his 
eyes, which at last terminated in blindness. 
This melancholy state was aggravated by the 
gout, for which he sought relief by a journey 
to Bath ; but, being overturned in his chariot, 
complained from that time of a pain in his 
side, and died at his house in Surrey-street in 
the Strand, Jan. 29, 1728-9. Having lain 
in state in the Jerusalem-chamber,- he was 
buried in Westminster-abbey, where a monu- 
ment is erected to his memory by Henrietta, 
duchess of Marlborough, to whom, for reasons 
either not known or not mentioned, he be- 
queathed a legacy of about ten thousand 
pounds ; the accumulation of attentive parsi- 
mony, which though to her superfluous and 
useless, might have given great assistance to 
the ancient family from which he descended, 

^ We Carthaginians bear not such blunted souls, 
nor does the sun averse from our city j-oke his 
steeds. * Cf. 2 Henry IV, Act iv, sc. v. 



3o6 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 



at that time, by the imprudence of his relation, 
reduced to difficulties and distress. 

Congreve has merit of the highest kind ; he 
is an original writer, who borrowed neither 
the models of his plot nor the manner of his 
dialogue. Of his plays I cannot speak dis- 
tinctly ; for since I inspected them many 
years have passed ; but what remains upon 
my memory is, that his characters are com- 
monly fictitious and artificial, with very Httle 
of nature, and not much of life. He formed a 
peculiar idea of comic excellence, which he 
supposed to consist in gay remarks and un- 
expected answers; but that which he en- 
deavoured, he seldom failed of performing. 
His scenes exhibit not much of humour, 
imagery, or passion ; his personages are a kind 
of intellectual gladiators ; every sentence is to 
ward or strike ; the contest of smartness is 
never intermitted; his wit is a meteor play- 
ing to and fro with alternate coruscations. 
His comedies have therefore, in some degree, 
the operation of tragedies; they surprise 
rather than divert, and raise admiration 
oftener than merriment. But they are the 
works of a mind replete with images, and quick 
in combination. 

Of his miscellaneous poetry I cannot say 
any thing very favourable. The powers of 
Congreve seem to desert him when he leaves 
the stage, as Antaeus ^ was no longer strong 
than when he could touch the ground. It 
cannot be observed without wonder, that a 
mind so vigorous and fertile in dramatic com- 
positions should on any other occasion dis- 
cover nothing but impotence and poverty. 
He has in these little pieces neither elevation 
of fancy, selection of language, nor skill in ver- 
sification ; yet, if I Avere required to select 
from the whole mass of Enghsh poetry the 
most poetical paragraph, I know not what I 
could prefer to an exclamation in "The 
Mourning Bride" : 

Aim. It was a fancy'd noise ; for all is hush'd. 

Leo. It bore the accent of a human, voice. 

Aim. It was thy fear, or else some transient 
wind 
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle : 
We'll listen — 

Leo. Hark ! 

Ahn. No, all is hush'd and stiU as death. — 'Tis 
dreadful ! 
How reverend is the face of this tall pile. 
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, 

^ Cf. Gayley, p. 238. 



To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof. 
By its own weight made steadfast and immoveable^ 
Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe 
And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs 
And monumental caves of death look cold, ■ 
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. 
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; 
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear 
Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes. 

He who reads these lines enjoys for a 
moment the powers of a poet ; he feels what 
he remembers to have felt before ; but he 
feels it with great increase of sensibility ; he 
recognizes a familiar image, but meets it again 
amplified and expanded, embellished with 
beauty, and enlarged with majesty. 

Yet could the author, who appears here to 
have enjoyed the confidence of Nature, lament 
the death of queen Mary in lines like these : 

The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills. 

Furrow the brows of all the impending hills. 

The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn. 

And each, with streaming eyes, supphes his want- 
ing urn. 

The Fauns forsake the woods, the Nymphs the 
grove. 

And round the plain in sad distractions rove : 

In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear. 

And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair. 

With their sharp nails, themselves the Satyrs 
wound. 

And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief 
the ground. 

Lo Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak, 

Dejected hes, his pipe in pieces broke. 

See Pales ^ weeping too, in wild despair. 

And to the piercing winds her bosom bare. 

And see yon fading myrtle, where appears 

The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing tears ; 

See how she wrings her hands, and beats her 
breast, 

And tears her useless girdle from her waist ! 

Hear the sad murmurs of her sighing doves ! 

For grief they sigh, forgetful of their loves. 

And, many years after, he gave no proof that 
time had improved his wisdom or his wit ; for, 
on the death of the marquis of Blandford, this 
was his song : 

And now the winds, which had so long been still, 
Began the swelling air with sighs to fill ! _ 
The water nymphs, who motionless remain'd, 
Like images of ice, while she complain'd, 
Now loos'd their streams; as when descending^ 



^ goddess of pastinage and cattle 



CONGREVE 



307 



Roll the steep torrents headlong o'er the plains. 
The prone creation, who so long had gaz'd, 
Charm'd with her cries, and at her griefs amaz'd, 
Began to roar and howl with horrid yell. 
Dismal to hear, and terrible to tell ! 
Nothing but groans and sighs were heard around, 
And Echo multiplied each mournful sound. 

In both these funeral poems, when he has 
yelled out many syllables of senseless dolour, 
he dismisses his reader with senseless conso- 
lation : from, the grave of Pastora^ rises a light 
that forms a star ; and where Amaryllis- wept 
for Amyntas,' from every tear sprung up a 
violet. 

But William is his hero, and of William he 
will sing : 

The hovering winds on downy wings shall wait 

around. 
And catch, and waft to foreign lands, the flying 

sound. 

It cannot but be proper to show what they 
shall have to catch and carry : 

'Twas now when flowery lawns the prospect made, 
And flowing brooks beneath a forest shade, 
A lowing heifer, loveliest of the herd. 
Stood feeding by ; while two fierce bulls prepar'd 
Their armed heads for fight, by fate of war to 

prove 
The victor worthy of the fair-one's love ; 
Unthought presage of what met next my view ; 
For soon the shady scene withdrew. 
And now, for woods and fields, and springing 

flowers. 
Behold a town arise, bulwark'd with walls and lofty 

towers ; 
Two rival armies all the plain o'erspread, . 
Each in battalia rang'd, and shining arms array'd; 
With eager eyes beholding both from far 
Namur, the prize and mistress of the war. 

The "Birth of the Muse" is a miserable 
fiction. One good line it has, which was bor- 
rowed from Dryden. The concluding verses 
are these : 

This said, no more remain'd. Th' etherial host 
Again impatient crowd the crj^stal coast. 
The Father, now, within his spacious hands 
Encompass'd all the mingled mass of seas and 

lands ; 
And, having heav'd alo-ft the ponderous sphere, 
He launch'd the world to float in ambient air. 

^ Queen Mary - the Marchioness of Blandford 
^ the Marquis of Blandford 



Of his irregular poems, that to Mrs. Ara- 
bella Hunt seems to be the best : his ode for 
St. Cecilia's Day, however, has some lines 
which Pope had in his mind when he wrote 
his own. 

Plis imitations of Horace are feebly para- 
phrastical, and the additions which he makes 
are of little value. He sometimes retains 
what were more properly omitted, as when 
he talks of vervain and gums to propitiate 
Venus. 

Of his translations, the satire of Juvenal 
was written very early, and may therefore 
be forgiven though it have not the massi- 
ness and vigour of the original. In all his 
versions strength and sprightliness are want- 
ing: his Hymn to Venus, from Homer, is 
perhaps the best. His lines are weakened 
with expletives, and his rhymes are frequently 
imperfect. 

His petty poems are seldom worth the cost 
df criticism ; sometimes the thoughts are false, 
and sometimes common. In his verses on 
Lady Gethin, the latter part is in imitation of 
Dryden's ode on Mrs. Killigrew ; and Doris, 
that has been so lavishly flattered by Steele, 
has indeed some lively stanzas, but the expres- 
sion might be mended ; and the most striking 
part of the character had been already shown 
in "Love for Love." His "Art of Pleasing" 
is founded on a vulgar, but perhaps imprac- 
ticable principle, and the staleness of the 
sense is not concealed by any novelty of illus- 
tration or elegance of diction. 

This tissue of poetry, from which he seems 
to have hoped a lasting name, is totally neg- 
lected, and known only as appended to his 
plays. 

While comedy or while tragedy is regarded, 
his plays are likely to be read; but, except 
what relates to the stage, I know not that he 
has ever written a stanza that is sung, or a 
couplet that is quoted. The general character 
of his "Miscellanies" is, that they show little 
wit, and little virtue. 

Yet to him it must be confessed, that we 
are indebted for the correction of a national 
error, and for the cure of our Pindaric mad- 
ness. He first taught the EngHsh A\Titers that 
Pindar's odes were regular; and though cer- 
tainly he had not the fire requisite for the 
higher species of lyric poetiy, he has shown 
us, that enthusiasm has its rules, and that in 
mere confusion there is neither grace nor 
greatness. 



3o8 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 



ESSAY FROM THE RAMBLER 
NO. 69. TUEs'dAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1750 

Flet quoque, ut in specido nigas adspexit aniles, 
Tyndaris; et sccum, cur sit bis rapta, requirit. 
Tempus edax rerum, tuque invidiosa vctustas 
Omnia destruitis; vitiataque dentibus aevi 
Paulatim lenta consumitis omnia morte.^ ■ — Ovid. 

An old Greek epigrammatist, intending to 
show the miseries that attend the last stage 
of man, imprecates upon those who are so 
foolish as to wish for long life, the calamity 
of continuing to grow old from century to 
century. He thought that no adventitious 
or foreign pain was requisite; that decrepi- 
tude itself was an epitome of whatever is 
dreadful ; and nothing could be added to the 
curse of age, but that it should be extended 
beyond its natural limits. 

The most indifferent or negligent spectator 
can indeed scarcely retire without heaviness 
of heart, from a view of the last scenes of the 
tragedy of life, in which he finds those, who 
in the former parts of the drama, were distin- 
guished by opposition of conduct, contrariety 
of designs, and dissimilitude of personal quali- 
ties, all involved in one common distress, and 
all struggling with affliction which they can- 
not hope to overcome. 

The other miseries, which waylay our pas- 
sage through the world, wisdom may escape, 
and fortitude may conquer: by caution and 
circumspection we may steal along with very 
little to obstruct or incommode us ; by spirit 
and vigour we may force a way, and reward 
the vexation of contest by the pleasures of 
victory. But a time must come when our 
policy and bravery shall be equally useless ; 
when we shall all sink into helplessness and 
sadness, without any power of receiving solace 
from the pleasures that have formerly de- 
lighted us, or any prospect of emerging into 
a second possession of the blessings that we 
have lost. 

^ The dreadful wrinkles when poor Helen spy'd. 
Ah! why this second rape? — with tears she 

cry'd. 
Time, thou devourer, and thou envious age, 
Who all destroy with keen corroding rage, 
Beneath your jaws, whate'er have pleas'd or 

please, 
Must sink, consum'd by swift or slow degrees. 
— Elphinston. 



The industry of man has, indeed, not been 
wanting in endeavours to procure comforts for 
these hours of dejection and melancholy, and 
to gild the dreadful gloom with artificial light. 
The most usual support of old age is wealth. 
He whose possessions are large, and whose 
chests are full, imagines himself always forti- 
fied against iavasions on his authority. If he 
has lost all other means of government, if his 
strength and his reason fail him, he can at 
last alter his will ; and therefore all that have 
hopes must hkewise have fears, and he may 
still continue to give laws to such as have not 
ceased to regard their own interest. 

This is, indeed, too frequently the citadel of 
the dotard, the last fortress to which age re- 
tires, and in which he makes the stand against 
the upstart race that seizes his domains, dis- 
putes his commands, and cancels his prescrip- 
tions. But here, though there may be safety, 
there is no pleasure ; and what remains is but 
a proof that more was once possessed. 

Nothing seems to have been more univer- 
sally dreaded by the ancients than orbity, or 
want of children ; and, indeed, to a man who 
has survived all the companions of his youth, 
all who have participated his pleasures and 
his cares, have been engaged in the same 
events, and filled their minds with the same 
conceptions, this full-peopled world is a dismal 
solitude. He stands forlorn and silent, neg- 
lected or insulted, in the midst of multitudes 
animated with hopes which he cannot share 
and employed in business which he is no longer 
able to forward or retard; nor can he find 
any to whom his life or his death are of im- 
portance, unless he has secured some domestic 
gratifications, some tender employments, and 
endeared himself to some whose interest and 
gratitude may unite them to him. ■ 

So different are the colours of life as we 
look forward to the future, or backward to the 
past ; and so different the opinions and senti- 
ments which this contrariety of appearance- 
naturally produces, that the conversation of 
the old and young ends generally with con- 
tempt or pity on either side. To a young man 
entering the world with fulness of hope, and 
ardour of pursuit, nothing is so unpleasing as 
the cold caution, the faint expectations, the 
scrupulous diffidence, which experience and 
disappointments certainly infupe ; and the old 
wonders in his turn that the world never can 
grow wiser, that neither precepts, nor testi- 
monies can cure boys of their credulity and 



LONDON 



309 



sufficiency ; and that no one can be convinced 
that snares are laid for him, till he finds him- 
self entangled. 

Thus one generation is always the scorn and 
wonder of the other, and the notions of the old 
and young are like liquors of different gravity 
and texture which never can unite. The 
spirits of youth sublimed by health, and vola- 
tilised by passion, soon leave behind them the 
phlegmatic sediment of weariness and de- 
liberation, and burst out in temerity and 
enterprise. The tenderness therefore which 
nature infuses, and which long habits of be- 
neficence confirm, is necessary to reconcile 
such opposition ; and an old man must be a 
father to bear with patience those follies and 
absurdities which he will perpetually imagine 
himself to find in the schemes and expectations, 
the pleasures and the sorrows, of those who 
have not yet been hardened by time, and 
chilled by frustration. 

Yet it may be doubted, vv^hether the pleasure 
of seeing children ripening into strength, be 
not overbalanced by the pain of seeing some 
fall in their blossom, and others blasted in 
their growth ; some shaken down with storms, 
some tainted with cankers, and some shrivelled 
in the shade ; and whether he that extends his 
care beyond himself, does not multiply his 
anxieties more than his pleasures, and weary 
himself to no purpose, by superintending what 
he cannot regulate. 

But, though age be tb every order of human 
beings sufliciently terrible, it is particularly to 
be dreaded by fine ladies, who have had no 
other end or ambition than to fill up the day 
and the night with dress, diversions, and 
flattery, and who, having made no acquaint- 
ance Avith knowledge, or with business, have 
constantly caught all their ideas from the 
current prattle of the hour, and been indebted 
for all their happiness to compliments and 
treats. With these ladies, age begins early, 
and very often lasts long; it begins when 
their beauty fades, when their mirth loses its 
sprightliness, and their motion its ease. From 
that time all which gave them joy vanishes 
from about them ; they hear the praises be- 
stowed on others, which used to swell their 
bosoms with exultation. They visit the seats 
of felicity, and endeavour to continue the 
habit of being delighted. But pleasure is only 
received when we believe that we give it in 
return. Neglect and petulance inform them 
that their power and their value are past; 



and what then remains but a tedious and com- 
fortless uniformity of time, without any 
motion of the heart, or exercise of the reason ? 

Yet, however age may discourage us by its 
appearance from considering it in prospect, 
we shall all by degrees certainly be old; and 
therefore we ought to inquire what provision 
can be made against that time of distress? 
what happiness can be stored up against the 
winter of life? and how we may pass our 
latter years with serenity and cheerfulness? 

If it has been found by the experience of 
mankind, that not even the best seasons of 
life are able to supply sufficient gratifications, 
without anticipating uncertain felicities, it 
cannot surely be supposed that old age, v/orn 
with labours, harassed with anxieties, and 
tortured with diseases, should have any glad- 
ness of its own, or feel any satisfaction from 
the contemplation of the present. All the 
comfort that can- now be expected must be re- 
called from the past, or borrowed from the 
future; the past is very soon exhausted, all 
the events or actions of which the memory 
can afford pleasure are quickly recollected ; 
and the future lies beyond the grave, where it 
can be reached only by virtue and devotion. 

Piety is the only proper and adequate relief 
of decaying man. He that grows old without 
religious hopes, as he declines into imbecility, 
and feels pains and sorrows incessantly crowd- 
ing upon him, falls into a gulf of bottomless 
misery, in which every reflection must plmige 
him deeper, and where he finds only new 
gradations of anguish, and precipices of horror. 

From LONDON 

By numbers here from shame or censure free 
All crimes are safe, but hated poverty. 155 
This, only this, the rigid law pursues ; 
This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. 
The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak 
Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke ; 
With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, 160 
And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways. 
Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd. 
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ; 
Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous 

heart. 
Than when a blockhead's insult points the 
dart. 165 

Has heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor, 
No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore ? 
No secret island in the boundless main ? 



3IO 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 



No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain ? 
Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, 1 70 
And bear oppression's insolence no more. 
This mournful truth is ev'ry where confess'd : 
Slow rises worth, by poverty depress'd ; 
But here more slow, where aU are slaves to 

gold, 
Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are 

sold; ' 175 

Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd. 
The groom retails the favours of his lord. 
But hark ! th' affrighted crowd's tumultu- 
ous cries 
Roll through the streets, and thunder to the 

skies. 
Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth 

and pow'r, 180 

Some pompous palace, or some bhssful bow'r. 
Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight 
Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous 

light ; 
Swift from pursuing horrors take your way. 
And leave your little All to flames a prey ; 185 
Then thro' the world a wretched vagrant 

roam. 
For where can starving merit find a home ? 
In vain your mournful narrative disclose. 
While all neglect, and most insult your woes. 



From THE VANITY OF HUMAN 
WISHES 

Let observation, with extensive view, 
Survey mankind, from China to Peru ; 
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife. 
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life : 
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate, 5 
O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of 

fate, 
Where wav'ring man, betray'd by vent'rous 

pride 
To tread the dreary paths without a guide. 
As treach'rous phantoms in the mist delude. 
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good; 10 
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, 
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the supphant 

voice ; 
How nations sink, by darling schemes op- 

press'd. 
When Vengeance listens to the fool's request. 
Fate wings with ev'ry wish th' afflictive dart. 
Each gift of nature and each grace of art ; 16 
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows, 
With fatal sweetness elocution flows, 



Impeachment stops the speaker's pow'rful 
breath. 

And restless fire precipitates on death. 20 

But scarce observ'd, the knowing and the 
bold 

Fall in the gen'ral massacre of gold ; 

Wide-wasting pest ! that rages miconfin'd. 

And crowds with crimes the records of man- 
kind ; 

For gold his sword the hireling ruflian draws, 

For gold the hireling judge distorts the 
laws : 26 

Wealth heap'd on wealth nor truth nor safety 
buys ; 

The dangers gather as the treasures rise. 

On what foimdation stands the warrior's 
pride, 
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles ^ de- 
cide : 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire. 
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his mde domain, 
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ; 196 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, — 
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ; 
Behold surrounding kings their pow'rs com- 
bine, 
And one capitulate, and one resign : 200 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms 

in vain ; 
"Think nothing gain'd," he cries, "till naught 

remain, 
On Moscow's walls till Gothic ^ standards fly, 
And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 
The march begins in military state, 205 

And nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
Stern Famine guards the sohtary coast, 
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost : 
He comes; nor want nor cold his course 

delay ; — 
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day : 210 
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, 
And shows his miseries in distant lands ; 
Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait. 
While ladies interpose and slaves debate. 
But did not Chance at length her error mend? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end? 216 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound? 
Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 
His fall was destin'd to a barren strand, 
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand. 220 

1 Charles XII * here = Swedish 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE 



311 



He left the name, at which the world grew 

pale, 
To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 



But grant, the virtues of a temp'rate prime ^ 
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ; 
An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay, 
And glides in modest innocence away ; 
Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears, 295 
Whose night congratulating Conscience 

cheers ; 
The gen'ral fav'rite as the gen'ral friend : 
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end? 
Yet ev'n on this her load ]\Iisfortune flings, 
To press the weary minutes' flagging wings ; 
New sorrow rises as the day returns, 301 

A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns. 
Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier. 
Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear. 
Year chases year, decay pursues decay, 305 
Still drops some joy from with'ring hfe away ; 
New forms arise, and diff'rent views engage. 
Superfluous lags the vet 'ran on the stage. 
Till pitying Nature signs the last release. 
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 310 
But few there are whom hours hke these 
await, 
Who set unclouded in the gulphs of Fate. 
From Lydia's monarch- should the search 

descend, 
By Solon caution 'd to regard his end, 314 
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise — 
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! 
From Marlb'rough's eyes the streams of do- 
tage flow. 
And Swift expires a driv'ler and a show. 



Where then shaU Hope and Fear their 

objects find? 
Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant 

mind? 
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 345 
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? 
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, 
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? — 
Enquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain. 
Which heav'n may hear ; nor deem rehgion 

vain. 350 

Still raise for good the supplicating voice, 
But leave to heav'n the measure and the 

choice ; 

^ youth - Croesus 



Safe in his pow'r, whose eyes discern afar 
The secret ambush of a specious pray'r. 
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, 355 

Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best. 
Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires, 
And strong devotion to the skies aspires, 
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful 

mind, 
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd ; 360 
For love, which scarce coUective man can 

fill; 
For patience, sov'reign o'er transmuted ill ; 
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat. 
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat : 
These goods for man the laws of heav'n 

ordain ; 365 

These goods He grants, who grants the pow'r 

to gain ; 
With these celestial Wisdom calms the 

mind, 
And makes the happiness she does not find. 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE 

(1714-1763) 

WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY 

To thee, fair freedom ! I retire 

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
Nor art thou foimd in mansions higher 

Than the low cot, or humble inn. 4 

'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign ; 

And every health which I begin. 
Converts dull port to bright champagne; 

Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. 8 

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate ! 

I fly from falsehood's specious grin ! 
Freedom I love, and form I hate, 

And choose my lodgings at an inn. 12 

Here, waiter ! take my sordid ore, 

Which lacqueys else might hope to win ; 

It buys, what courts have not in store ; 
It buys me freedom at an inn. 16 

Whoe'er has travell'd life's duU round, 
Where'er his stages ma>' have been. 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The warmest welcome, at an inn. 20 



312 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE 



From THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS 

IN IMITATION OF SPENSER 

Ah me ! fuU sorely is my heart forlorn, 
To think how modest worth neglected lies ; 
While partial fame doth with her blasts 

adorn 
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp dis- 
guise ; 
Deeds of iU sort, and mischievous emprize : 
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies ; 
Such as I oft have chaimced to espy. 
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 9 

In ev'ry village mark'd with little spire, 
Embow'r'd in trees, and hardly known to 

fame. 
There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire, 
A matron old, whom we school-mistress 

name; 
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to 

tame; 
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, 
Aw'd by the pow'r of this relentless dame ; 
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, 
For unkempt hair, or talk unconn'd, are sorely 

shent.^ . 18 

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 
Which learning near her little dome did 

stow; 
Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 
Tho' now so wide its waving branches flow ; 
And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
For not a wind might curl the leaves that 

blew. 
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse 

beat low ; 
And as they look'd they found their horror 

grew. 
And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the 

view. 27 



A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ;. 

A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air ; 

'Twas simple russet,^ but it was her own ; 

'Twas her own country bred the flock so 
fair ; 

'Twas her own labour did the fleece pre- 
pare ; 

^ put to shame ^ undyed homespun 



And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around, 

Thro' pious awe, did term it passing rare; 

For they in gaping wonderment abound, 

And think, no doubt, she been the greatest 

wight on ground. 72 

Albeit ne flatt'ry did corrupt her truth, 

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; 

Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt,^ for- 
sooth. 

Or dame, the sole additions ^ she did hear ; 

Yet these she challeng'd, these she held 
right dear : 

Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, 

Who should not honoiir'd eld with these 
revere : 

For never title yet so mean could prove, 
But there was eke a mind which did that title 
love. 81 

One ancient hen she took dehght to feed. 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need. 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ; 
Such favour did her past deportment claim : 
And, if neglect had lavish'd on the ground 
Fragment of bread, she^ would collect the 

same; 
For well she ^ knew, and quaintly could ex- 
pound. 
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb 
she found. 90 



In elbow chair, like that of Scottish stem 
By the sharp tooth of cank'ring eld defac'd. 
In which, when he receives his diadem, 
Our sov'reign prince and liefest liege is 

plac'd. 
The matron sate ; and some with rank she 

grac'd, 
(The source of children's and of courtier's 

pride !) 
Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there 

pass'd ; 
And warn'd them not the fretful to deride, 
But love each other dear, whatever them be- 
tide. 144 

Right well she knew each temper to descry ; 
To thwart the proud, and the submiss •• to 



^ mine aunt; cf. nuncle in King Lear, I, iv, 117 
^ titles ^ the hen ■* submissive 



THOMAS GRAY 



313 



Some with vile copper prize ^ exalt on high, 
And some entice with pittance small of 

praise ; 
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays : 
Ev'n absent, she the reins of pow'r doth 

hold. 
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she 
sways; 151 

Forewarn'd, if little bird their pranks be- 
hold, 
'TwiU whisper in her ear, and all the scene 
unfold. 153 

Lo, now with state she utters the command ! 
Ef tsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; 
Their books of stature small they take in 

hand, 
Which with pellucid horn secured are,^ 
To save from finger wet the letters fair : 
The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
St. George's high atchievements does de- 
clare ; 
On which thilk wight' that has y-gazingbeen 
Kens the forth-coming rod, unpleasing sight, 
I ween ! 162 

Ah, luckless he, and born beneath the beam 
Of evil star ! it irks me whUst? I write ! 
As erst the bard ^ by MuUa's silver stream, 
Oft, as he told of deadly dolorous plight, 
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite. 
For brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
To loose the brogues,^ the stripling's late 

deHght ! 
And down they drop ; appears his dainty 

skin. 
Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. 171 

O ruthful scene ! when from a nook obscure, 
His little sister doth his peril see : 
AH playful as she sate, she grows demure ; 
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee; 
She meditates a pray'r to set him free : 
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny, 
(If gentle pardon could with dames agree) 
To her sad grief that swells in either eye, 
And wrings her so that all for pity she could 
die. 180 

No longer can she now her shrieks com- 
mand ; 
^\nd hardly she forbears thro' aweful fear, 

^ a penny ^ hornbooks ^ that person * Ed- 
mund Spenser ^ breeches 



To rushen forth, and, with presumptuous 

hand. 
To stay harsh justice in its mid career. 
On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear ! 
(Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful 

blow !) 
She sees no kind domestic visage near, 
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow; 
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 



The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, 
Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle 

care: 191 

By turns, astony'd, ev'ry twig survey. 
And, from their feUow's hateful wounds, 

beware ; 
Knowing, I wist,^ how each the same may 

share ; 
'TiU fear has taught them a performance 

meet, 
And to the weU-known chest the dame re- 
pair ; 
Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth 'em 

greet. 
And ginger-bread y-rare ; now, certes, doubly 

sweet ! 207 



THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) 

AN ODE 

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON 
COLLEGE 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 

That crown the watry glade. 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's ^ holy Shade ; 
And ye, that from the stately brow 5 

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver- winding way. 10 

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade. 

Ah, fields belov'd in vain, 
Where once my careless childhood stray'd, 

A stranger yet to pam ! 

1 certainly ' Henry VI, the founder of Eton 



314 



THOMAS GRAY 



I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 15 

A momentary bliss bestow, 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to sooth, 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 20 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green 

The paths of pleasure trace, 
Who foremost now delight to cleave 25 

With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? 

The captive linnet which enthrall? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying baU ? 30 

While some on earnest business bent 

Their murm'ring labours ply 
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty : 
Some bold adventurers disdain 35 

The limits of their little reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry : 
Still as they run they look behind. 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 40 

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed. 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, 45 

Wild wit, invention ever-new. 

And lively cheer of vigour born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 

That fly th' approach of morn. 50 

Alas, regardless of their doom. 

The little victims play ! 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see how aU around 'em wait 55 

The Ministers of human fate. 

And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, shew them where in ambush stand 
To seize their prey the murth'rous band ! 

Ah, tell them, they are men ! 60 

These ^ shall the fury^ Passions tear, 
The vultures of the mind. 



Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behmd ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 65 
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, 

That inly gnaws the secret heart. 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 70 

Ambition this ^ shaU tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high. 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 75 
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye. 

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow ; 
And keen Remorse with blood defil'd, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 80 

Lo, in the vale of years beneath 

A griesly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their Queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 85 
That every labouring sinew strains. 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo, Poverty, to iill the band, 
That numbs the soul with icy hand, 

And slow-consuming Age. 90 

To each his suff 'rings : all are men, ' . 

Condemn'd alike to groan, 
The tender for another's pain ; 

Th' imfeehng for his own. 
Yet ah ! why should they know their fate? 95 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 

And happiness too swiftly flies. 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 
No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 100 



ELEGY 

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD 

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowmg herd wind slowly o'er the lea. 

The plowman homeward plods his weary 
way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 



^ dir. ohj. 



a noun epilhei 



this one 



AN ELEGY 



315 



Now fades the glimmering landscape on the 
sight, _ 5 

And all the air ^ a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; ^ 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 1 1 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's 
shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 
heap, 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built ' 

shed, 

The cock's shriU clarion, or the echoing horn, * 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly 

bed. 20 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall 
burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
No children nm to hsp their sire's return, 

Or chmb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 

broke ; 

How jocimd did they drive their team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy 

stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 30 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r. 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er 
gave. 

Awaits ahke th' inevitable hour.^ 35 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, 
If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies 
raise, 

^ dir. obj. " sheep folds ' thatched * of the 
hunters ' subject 



Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 41 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honour's voice provoke ^ the silent dust. 
Or Flatt'ry sooth- the dull cold ear of 
Death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have 
sway'd. 
Or wak'd to extasy the Uving lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 51 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Fvill many a gem of purest ray serene. 

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless 
breast 
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his coimtry's 
blood. 60 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone 65 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes con- 
fin'd; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 71 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 75 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

^ to call forth to action ' humor by assenting 



3i6 



THOMAS GRAY 



Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 

deck'd, 
. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 

Their name, .their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 
Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And man}^ a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who to dumb Forge tfulness a prey, 85 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature 

cries, 91 

Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance,^ by lonely contemplation led, 95 
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would 

rove, 106 

Now drooping, woefvil wan, like one forlorn. 

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless 

love. 

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 
Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree, 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 1 1 1 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

" The next, v/ith dirges due in sad array 
Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him 
borne. 

^ if perchance 



Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the 
lay, IIS 

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged 
thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. 

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
A nd Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 120 

Large was his bounty, and his soid sincere, 
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: 

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear. 
He gain'dfrom Heav'n {'twas all he wish'd) a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abodCy 

{There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

THE PROGRESS OF POESY 
A PINDARIC ODE 



The Strophe 

Awake, ^Eolian ^ lyre, awake, 
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. 
From Helicon's ^ harmonious springs 
A thousand rills their mazy progress take : 
The laughing flowers, that round them blow. 
Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 6 

Now the rich stream of music winds along 
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong. 
Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign : * 
Now rolling down the steep amain, 10 

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : 
The rocks, and nodding groves rebellow to the 



The Antistrophe 

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul. 
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs. 
Enchanting shell ! ■* the sullen Cares, 15 

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. 

^ Pindaric, for so Pindar called his poetry 
2 Aganippe and Hippocrene, the fountains of the 
Muses at the foot of Mt. Helicon ^ fields of grain 
* the lyre 



THE PROGRESS OF POESY 



ZT-1 



On Thracia's hills the Lord of War/ 
Has curb'd the fury of his car, 
And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. 
Perching on the scept'red hand 20 

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king^ 
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing : 
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie 
The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his 
eye. 

The Epode 

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 25 

Temper'd to thy warbled lay. 
O'er Idalia's ^ velvet-green 
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 
On Cytherea's day 

With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 30 
Frisking light in frolic measures ; 
Now pursuing, now retreating. 
Now in circling troops they meet : 
To brisk notes in cadence beating 
Glance their many-twinkling feet. 35 

Slow melting strains their Queen's approach 

declare : 
Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. 
With arms sublime, that float upon the air, 
In gliding state she wins her easy way : 
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move 
The bloom of yomig Desire, and purple light 

of Love. 41 

n 

The Strophe 

Man's feeble race what Ills await. 
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, 
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train. 
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of 

Fate! 45 

The fond complaint, my Song, disprove. 
And justify the laws of Jove. 
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly 

Muse ? 
Night, and all her sickly dews, 
Her Spectres wan, and Birds of boding cry, 50 
He gives to range the dreary sky : 
Tfll down the eastern cliffs afar 
Hyperion's'' march they spy, and gUtt'ring 

shafts of war. 

^ Mars, who was especially worshipped in 
Thrace ^ Jove's eagle ^ a town in Cyprus con- 
taining a temple of Venus ■* the sun's 



The Antistrophe 

In climes beyond the solar road,^ 
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-buflt movmtains 

roam, 55 

The Muse has broke the twflight-gloom 
To cheer the shiv'ring Native's dull abode. 
And oft, beneath the od'rous shade 
Of Chili's boundless forests laid, 
She deigns to hear the savage Youth repeat 
In loose numbers wildly sweet 61 

Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky 

Loves. 
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, 
Glory pursue, and generous Shame, 
Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy 

flame. 65 

The Epode 

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, ^ 
Isles, that crown th' ^gean deep, 
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, 
Or where Mseander's amber waves 
In lingering Lab'rinths creep, 70 

How do your tuneful Echoes languish, 
Mute, but to the voice of Anguish ? 
Where each old poetic Mountain 
Inspiration breath'd around : 
Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain 75 

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound : 
Till the sad Nine^ in Greece's evil hour 
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.* 
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power,' 
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, 81 

They sought, O Albion ! ^ next thy sea-encircled 
coast. 

Ill 

The Strophe 

Far from the sun and summer-gale, 
In thy° green lap was Nature's Darling^ 

laid, 
WTaat time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 85 

To Him the mighty Mother did unveil 
Her awful face : The dauntless ChUd 
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smflcd. 
This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear 
Richly paint the vernal year : 90 

* the path of the sun - This and the following 
arc places celebrated in Greek poetry. ^ the Muses 
•' Italy ^ England '^ i.e. England's ' Shakespeare 



3i8 



THOMAS GRAY 



Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! 

This can imlock the gates of Joy ; • 

Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, 

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. 

The Antistrophe 

Nor second He,^ that rode sublime 95 

Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, 
The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. 
He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and 

Time: 
The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, 
Where Angels tremble, while they gaze, 100 
He saw ; but blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous 

car. 
Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear 
Two Coursers^ of ethereal race, 105 

With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long- 
resounding pace. 

The Epode 

Hark, his hands the lyre explore! 
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er 
Scatters from her pictur'd urn 
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 

But ah! 'tis heard no more 11 1 

O Lyre divine, what daring Spirit 
Wakes thee now ? tho' he inherit 
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion. 
That the Theban Eagle ' bear 115 

Sailing with supreme dominion 
Thro' the azure deep of air : 
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray 
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun : 1 20 
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way 
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 
Beneath the Good how far — but far above 
the Great. 

THE FATAL SISTERS 

AN ODE 

(From the Norse Tongue) 

Now the storm begins to lower, 
(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) 
Iron-sleet of arrowy shower 
Hurtles in the darken'd air. 

^ Milton ' the heroic couplet ^ Pindar 



Glitt'ring lances are the loom, 5 

Where the dusky warp we strain. 
Weaving many a soldier's doom, 
Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.^ 

See the griesly texture grow, 
('Tis of human entrails made,) 10 

And the weights, ^ that play below, 
Each a gasping warrior's head. 

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore. 
Shoot the trembling cords along. 
Sword, that once a monarch bore, 15 

Keep the tissue close and strong. 

Mista black, terrific maid, 

Sangrida, and Hilda ^ see. 

Join the wayward work to aid : 

'Tis the woof of victory. 20 

Ere the ruddy sim be set. 
Pikes must shiver, javelins sing. 
Blade with clattering buckler meet, 
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. 

(Weave the crimson web of war) 25 

Let us go, and let us fly. 
Where our friends the conflict share. 
Where they triumph, where they die. 

As the paths of fate we tread. 

Wading thro' th' ensanguin'd field : 30 

Gondula, and Geira,^ spread 

O'er the youthful king your shield. 

We the reins to slaughter give. 

Ours to km, and ours to spare : 

Spite of danger he shall live. 35 

(Weave the crimson web of war.) 

They, whom once the desert-beach 
Pent within its bleak domain, 
Soon their ample sway shall stretch 
O'er the plent)^ of the plain. 40 

Low the dauntless earl is laid, 
Gor'd with many a gaping wound : 
Fate demands a nobler head ; 
Soon a king shall bite the ground. 

^ death ^ weights of the loom ^ These three are 
Valkyries, i.e. goddesses of baUle. ^ These two are 

Valkyries. 



WILLIAM COLLINS 



319 



^ Long his loss shall Eirin ^ weep, 45 

Ne'er again his likeness see ; 
Long her strains m sorrow steep, 
Strains of immortality. 

Horror covers all the heath, 
Clouds of carnage blot the sun. 50 

Sisters, weave the web of death ; 
Sisters, cease, the work is done, 

HaU the task, and haU the hands! 
Songs of joy and triumph sing! 
Joy to the victorious bands ; 55 

Triumph to the younger king. 

Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, 
Learn the tenor of our song. 
Scotland, thro' each winding vale 
Far and wide the notes prolong. 60 

Sisters, hence with spurs of ^eed : 
Each her thundering falchion wield ; 
Each bestride her sable steed. 
Hurry, hurry to the field. 

WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) 

A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S 
CYMBELYNE 

Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, 
Supposed to be Dead ^ 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom. 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 5 

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here, 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No wither'd witch shall here be seen, 

No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 10 

The female fays shall haunt the green. 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The redbreast oft at ev'ning hours 

Shall kindly lend his little aid, 
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs, 15 

To deck the ground where thou art laid. 



When howling winds, and beating rain. 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 

Or midst the chase on ev'ry plain. 

The tender thought on thee shall dwell, 20 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 

For thee the tear be didy shed : 
Belov'd, till life could charm no more ; 

And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead. 

ODE 

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE 
YEAR 1746 

How sleep the brave who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold. 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung. 

By forms unseen their dirge is simg ; 

There Honour comes, a pUgrim grey. 

To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 10 

And Freedom shall awhile repair. 

To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

ODE TO EVENING 

If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song. 
May hope, chaste Eve,^ to sooth thy modest 
ear. 

Like thy own solemn springs. 

Thy springs and dying gales, 

O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright- 
hair'd svm 5 

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wav}^ bed : 

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd 

bat. 
With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern 
wing, 10 

Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullefi horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : 



Ireland ^ Cf. Cymbeline, IV, ii, 215-29 



1 Evening 



320 



WILLIAM COLLINS 



Now teach me, maid ^ compos'd 
To breathe some soften'd strain, 



IS 



Whose nmnbers, stealing thro' thy dark'ning 

vale 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial lov'd return ! 20 

For when thy folding-star ^ arising shews 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant Hours, and elves 

Who slept in fiow'rs the day. 

And many a nymph who wreaths her brows 
with sedge, 25 

And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and, lovelier 
still, 
The pensive Pleasures sweet, 
Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety 

lake 
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd 
pUe 30 

Or upland fallows grey 
Reflect its last cool gleam. 

But when chill blust'ring winds, or driving 
rain, 

Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut 
That from the mountain's side 35 

Views wilds, and swelling floods. 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd 

spires. 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er 
aU 
Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil. 40 

While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he 

wont. 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest 
Eve; 
While Summer loves to sport 
Beneath thy ling'ring light ; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous air, 46 

Affrights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes ; 

^ I'^\-cning ^ the evening star, the signal for 
folding flocks 



So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd 

Health, 50 

Thy gentlest influence own, 

And hymn thy f av'rite name ! 

THE PASSIONS 
AN ODE TO MUSIC 

When Music, heav'nly maid, was young, 

While yet in early Greece she sung, 

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,^ 

Throng'd around her magic cell. 

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 5 

Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; 

By turns they felt the glovN^ing mind 

Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd : 

Till once, 'tis said, when all. were fir'd, 

Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, 10 

From the supporting myrtles round 

They snatch'd her instruments of soimd ; 

And as they oft had heard apart 

Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 

Each, for madness rul'd the hour, 15 

Wovild prove his own expressive pow'r. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid. 

And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 

Ev'n at the sound himself had made. 20 

Next Anger rush'd ; his eyes, on fire. 
In lightnings own'd his secret stings ; 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woful measures wan Despair 25 

Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd ; 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delightful measure ? 30 

Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure. 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
Still would her touch the strain prolong. 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
She call'd on Echo still thro' all the song ; 35 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at ev'ry close, 
And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her 
golden hair. 

^ the lyre, cf. Progress of Poesy, 11. 13-15 



THE PASSIONS 



321 



And longer had she sung, — but with a 
frown 
Revenge impatient rose ; 40 

He threw his blood-stain 'd sword in thunder 
down 
And with a with'ring look 
The Avar-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. 45 
And ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat ; 
And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause be- 
tween, 
Dejected Pity, at his side. 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 50 

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien. 
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd burst- 
ing from his head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd. 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of diflt'ring "themes the veering song was 
mix'd, 
And now it courted Love, now raving call'd 
on Hate. 56 

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, 
Pale Melancholy sate retir'd, 
And from her wild sequester 'd seat. 
In notes by distance made more sweet, 60 
Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive 
soul: 
And, dashing soft from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; 
Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure 
stole ; 
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond 
delay 65 

Round an holy calm diffusing. 
Love of peace and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But oh, how alter 'd was its sprightlier tone. 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest 
hue. 
Her bow across her shoulder flung, 71 

Her buskins ^ gemm'd with morning dew. 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket 
rung, 
The hunter's call to faun and dryad known ! 
The oak-crown'd sisters,' and their chaste- 
ey'd queen, 75 

^ boots ^ nymphs of the "chaste-eyed queen" 
Diana 



Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, 

And Sport leapt up and seiz'd his beechen 
spear. 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. 80 

He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol. 
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the 
best. 
They would have thought, who heard the 
strain, 85 

They saw in Tempe's vale^ her native 

maids 
Amidst the vestal sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic 
round ; 90 

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone un- 
bound, 
And he, amidst his frolic play. 
As if he would the charming air repay. 
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 

O Music, sphere-descended ^ maid, 95 

Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid. 

Why, goddess, why, to us denied, 

Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? 

As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r 

You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r, 100 

Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd, 

Can well recall what then it heard. 

Where is thy native simple heart, 

Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? 

Arise as in that elder time, 105 

Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! 

Thy wonders, in that godlike age, 

Fill thy recording sister's ^ page. — 

'Tis said, and I believe the tale. 

Thy humblest reed could more prevail, no 

Had more of strength, diviner rage. 

Than all which charms this laggard age, 

Ev'n all at once together found, 

Caecilia's mingled world of sound. 

O bid our vain endeavours cease, 115 

Revive the just designs of Greece, 

Return in all thy simple state. 

Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 

^ Cf., below, note on Keats' Ode on a Grecian 
Urn, 1. 7 ^ heaven-descended ^ Clio, the Muse 
of history 



322 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 



THOMAS WARTON (1728-1790) 

SONNET IV 

WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE 

Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle ! 
Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore, 
To Amber's fatal plain ^ Pendragon ^ bore, 
Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile, 
T'entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's^ 

guile : 
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with himian gore, 
Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic 

lore: 
Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil, 
To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, 
Rear'd the rude heap: or, in thy hallow'd 

round, 10 

Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line ; 
Or here those kings in solemn state were 

crown'd : 
Studious to trace thy wondrous origine, 
We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

(1728-1774) 

LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE 

WORLD TO mS FRIENDS IN 

THE EAST 

LETTER XXI 

The Chinese goes to see a Play 

The English are as fond of seeing plays acted 
as the Chinese ; but there is a vast difference 
in the manner of conducting them. We play 
our pieces in the open air, the English theirs 
under cover ; we act by daylight, they by the 
blaze of torches. One of our plays continues 
eight or ten days successively;- an English 
piece seldom takes up above four hours in 
the representation. 

My companion in black, with whom I am 
now beginning to contract an intimacy, intro- 
duced me a few nights ago to the playhouse, 
where we placed ourselves conveniently at the 
foot of the stage. As the curtain was not 

^ near Salisbury ^ Uther Pendragon, father of 
King Arthur ^ leader of the Saxons 



drawn before my arrival, I had an opportunity 
of observing the behaviour of the spectators, 
and indulging those reflections which novelty 
generally inspires. 

The rich in general were placed in the lowest 
seats, and the poor rose above them in degrees 
proportioned to their poverty. The order of 
precedence seemed here inverted ; those who 
were xmdermost aU the day, now enjoyed a 
temporary eminence, and became masters of 
the ceremonies. It was they who caUed for 
the music, indulging every noisy freedom, 
and testifying all the insolence of beggary in 
exaltation. 

They who held the middle region seemed not 
so riotous as those above them, nor yet so 
tame as those below : to judge by their looks, 
many of them seemed strangers there as well 
as myself. They were chiefly employed, 
during this period of expectation, in eating 
oranges, reading the story of the play, or 
making assignations. 

Those who sat in the lowest rows, vv^hich are 
called the pit, seemed to consider themselves 
as judges of the merit of the poet and the 
performers ; they were assembled partly to be 
amused, and partly to show their taste ; ap- 
pearing to labour under that restraint which 
an affectation of superior discernment gen- 
erally produces. My companion, however, 
informed me, that not one in a hundred of 
them knew even the first principles of criti- 
cism; that they assimied the right of being 
censors because there was none to contradict 
their pretensions ; and that every man -who 
now called himself a connoisseur, became such 
to all intents and purposes. 

Those who sat in the boxes appeared in the 
most unhappy situation of aU. The rest of 
the audience came merely for their own 
amusement ; these, rather to furnish out a 
part of the entertainment themselves. I 
could not avoid considering them as acting 
parts in dumb show — not a courtesy or nod, 
that was not aU the result of art ; not a look 
nor a smile that was not designed for murder. 
Gentlemen and ladies ogled each other through 
spectacles ; for, my companion observed, that 
blindness was of late become fashionable ; 
all affected indifference and ease, while their 
hearts at the same time burned for conquest. 
Upon the whole, the lights, the music, the 
ladies in their gayest dresses, the men with 
cheerfulness and expectation iii their looks, 
all conspired to make a most agreeable piC' 



LETTERS FROM A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD 



323 



ture, and to fiU a heart that sympathises at 
human happiness with inexpressible serenity. 

The expected time for the play to begin at 
last arrived ; the curtain was drawn, and the 
actors came on. A woman, who personated a 
queen, came in curtseying to the audience, 
who clapped their hands upon her appear- 
ance. Clapping of hands is, it seems, the 
manner of applauding in England ; the man- 
ner is absurd, but every country, you know, 
has its peculiar absurdities. I was equally 
surprised, however, at the submission of the 
actress, who should have considered herself 
as a queen, as at the little discernment of the 
audience who gave her such marks of applause 
before she attempted to deserve them. Pre- 
liminaries between her and the audience 
being thus adjusted, the dialogue was sup- 
ported between her and a most hopeful youth, 
who acted the part of her confidant. They 
both appeared in extreme distress, for it 
seems the queen had lost a chUd some fifteen 
years before, and still kept its dear resem- 
blance next her heart, while her kind compan- 
ion bore a part in her sorrows. 

Her lamentations grew loud; comfort is 
offered, but she detests the very sound : she 
bids them preach comfort to the winds. Upon 
this her husband comes in, who, seeing the 
queen so much afflicted, can himself hardly 
refrain from tears, or avoid partaking in the 
soft distress. After thus grievmg through 
three scenes, the curtain dropped for the first 
act. 

"Truly," said I to my companion, "these 
kings and queens are very much disturbed at 
no very great misfortune : certain I am, were 
people of hrunbler stations to act in this man- 
ner, they would be thought divested of com- 
mon sense." I had scarcely finished this 
observation, when the curtain rose, and the 
king came on in a violent passion. His wife 
had, it seems, refused his proffered tenderness, 
had spurned his royal embrace, and he seemed 
resolved not to survive her fierce disdain. 
After he had thus fretted, and the queen had 
fretted through the second act, the curtain 
was let down once more. 

"Now," says my companion, "you perceive 
the king to be a man of spirit ; he feels at every 
pore : one of your phlegmatic sons of clay 
would have given the queen her own way, and 
let her come to herself by degrees ; but the 
king is for immediate tenderness, or instant 
death: death and tenderness are leaduig 



passions of every modem buskined hero; 
this moment they embrace, and the next 
stab, mixing daggers and kisses in every 
period." 

I was going to second his remarks, when 
my attention was engrossed by a new object ; 
a man came in balancing a straw upon his 
nose, and the audience were clapping their 
hands, in all the raptures of applause. "To 
what purpose," cried I, "does this unmeaning 
figure make his appearance? is he a part 
of the plot?" — ^" Unmeaning do you call 
him?" replied my friend in black; "this is 
one of the most important characters of the 
whole play ; nothing pleases the people more 
than seeing a straw balanced : there is a good 
deal of meaning in the straw : there is some- 
thing suited to every apprehension in the 
sight ; and a fellow possessed of talents like 
these is sure of making his fortime." 

The third act now began with an actor who 
came to inform us that he was the villain of the 
play, and intended to show strange things 
before all was over. He was joined by 
another who seemed as much disposed for 
mischief as he: their intrigues continued 
through this whole division. "If that be a 
villain," said I, "he must be a very stupid one 
to tell his secrets without being asked ; such 
soliloquies of late are never admitted in 
China." 

The noise of clapping interrupted me once 
more; a child of six years old was learning 
to dancfe on the stage, which gave the ladies 
and mandarines infinite satisfaction. "I am 
sorry," said I, "to see the pretty creature so 
early learning so very bad a trade ; dancing 
being, I presume, as contemptible here as in 
China." — "Quite the reverse," interrupted 
my companion ; " dancing is a very reputable 
and genteel employment here; men have a 
greater chance for encouragement from the 
merit of their heels than their heads. One 
who jumps up and flourishes his toes three 
times before he comes to the ground, may have 
three hundred a year ; he who flourishes them 
four times, gets four hvmdred ; but he who 
arrives at five is inestimable, and ma}'^ demand 
what salary he thinks proper. The female 
dancers, too, are valued for this sort of jump- 
ing and crossing; and it is a cant word 
amongst them, that she deserves most who 
shows highest. But the fourth act is begun ; 
let us be attentive." 

In the fourth act the queen finds her long 



324 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 



lost child, now grown up into a youth of 
smart parts and great qualifications ; where- 
fore she wisely considers that the crown will 
fit his head better than that of her husband, 
whom she knows to be a driveller. The king 
discovers her design, and here comes on the 
deep distress : he loves the queen, and he loves 
the kingdom ; he resolves, therefore, in order 
to possess both, that her son must die. The 
queen exclaims at his barbarity, is frantic 
with rage, and at length, overcome with 
sorrow, falls into a fit ; upon which the cur- 
tain drops, and the act is concluded. 

"Observe the art of the poet," cries my 
companion. "When the queen can say no 
more, she falls into a fit. While thus her 
eyes are shut, while she is supported in the 
arms of Abigail,^ what horrors do we not 
fancy ! We feel it in every nerve : take my 
word for it, that fits are the true aposiopesis^ 
of modern tragedy." 

The fifth act began, and a busy piece it was. 
Scenes shifting, trumpets sounding, mobs hal- 
looing, carpets spreading, guards busthng 
from one door to another; gods, demons, 
daggers, racks, and ratsbane. But whether 
the king was killed, or the queen was drowned, 
or the son was poisoned, I have absolutely 
forgotten. 

When the play was over, I could not avoid 
observing, that the persons of the drama ap- 
peared in as much distress in the first act as 
the last. "How is it possible," said I, "to 
sympathise with them through five long acts ? 
Pity is but a short lived passion. I hate to 
hear an actor mouthing trifles. Neither 
startings, strainings, nor attitudes, affect me, 
unless there be cause : after I have been once 
or twice deceived by those unmeaning alarms, 
my heart sleeps in peace, probably unaffected 
by the principal distress. There should be 
one great passion aimed at by the actor as 
well as the poet ; all the rest should be subor- 
dinate, and only contribute to make that the 
greater ; if the actor, therefore, exclaims 
upon every occasion, in the tones of despair, 
he attempts to move us too soon ; he antici- 
pates the blow, he ceases to affect, though 
he gains our applause." 

I scarce perceived that the audience were 
almost all departed ; wherefore, mixing with 
the crowd, my companion and I got into the 

' her maid ^ as a figure of rhetoric, a sudden 
termination before a speech is really completed 



street, where, essaying a hundred obstacles 
from coach-wheels and palanquin poles, like 
birds in their flight through the branches of a 
forest, after various turnings, we both at 
length got home in safety. Adieu. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain ; 
Where health and plenty cheered the labour- 
ing swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms de- 
layed: 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could 

please. 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green. 
Where humble happiness endeared each 

scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm, 
The sheltered cot, the cioltivated farm, 10 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 
The decent church that topt the neighbouring 

hill. 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the 

shade 
For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
How often have I blest the coming day, 15 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And aU the village train, from labour free. 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading 

tree, 
WhUe many a pastime circled in the shade, 19 
The yoimg contending as the old surveyed ; 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art, and feats of strength went 

round. 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown 
By holding out to tire each- other down ; 26 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. 
While secret laughter tittered round the 

place ; 
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love. 
The matron's glance that would those looks 
reprove : 30 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports 

like these. 
With sweet succession, taught even toil to 

please : 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influ- 
ence shed : 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 



325 



These were thy charms — but all these charms 

are fled. 
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
drawn ; 36 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy 

way ; 
Along the glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the moifldering 

waU; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 

hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 50 

111 fares the land, to hastening flls a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has 

made : 54 

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
A time there was, ere England's griefs 

began. 
When every rood of groimd maintained its 

man ; 
For him light labour spread her wholesome 

store. 
Just gave what life required, but gave no 

more : 60 

His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling 

train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 64 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets 

rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to opvdence allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 
Those calm desires that asked but Uttle room. 
Those healthful sports that graced the peace- 
ful scene, 71 
Lived in each look, and brightened aU the 

green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
.\nd rural mirth and manners are no more. 



Sweet Auburn ! parent of the bhssful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 77 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn 

grew, 80 

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to 

pain. 
Li all my wanderings round this world of 

care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my 

share — 84 

I stiU had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned 

skiU, 90 

Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and aU I saw ; 
And, as an hare whom hounds and horns 

pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she 

flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 95 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
How happy he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 1 00 
Who qviits a world where strong temptations 

try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine or tempt the dangerous 

deep; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 105 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; no 
And, aU his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past ! 
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 

close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 114 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes came softened from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their 

young, 



326 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 



The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whis- 
pering wind, 121 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant ^ 

mind ; — ■ 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fiUed each pause the nightingale had 

made. 
But now the sounds of population faU, 125 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate m the gale. 
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, 
For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 
She, -RTetched matron, forced in age, for 
bread, 131 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses 

spread, 
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 135 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden 
smiled. 
And stm where many a garden flower grows 

vs^ild; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis- 
close. 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to aU the country dear, 141 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change 

his place ; 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 145 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings but reheved their 
pain: 150 

The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged 

breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims 

allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155 
Sat by the fire, and talked the night away. 
Wept o'er his wounds or, tales of sorrow done. 
Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields 



were won. 



^ unoccupied by care 



Pleased with his guests, the good man learned 

to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 160 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 165 

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for 

all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dis- 
mayed; 172 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to 

raise, . 175 

And his last faltering accents whispered 

praise. 
At church, with meek and imaffected grace. 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway. 
And fools, who came to scoff, remamed to 

pray. 180 

The service past, aroimd the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
Even children followed with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's 

smile. 184 

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares dis- 

trest : 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were 

given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 

storm, 190 

Tho' roimd its breast the rolliiag clouds are 

spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the 

way. 
With blossom'd furze improfitably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 197 
I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to 

trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 200 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 



327 



Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full weU tjie busy whisper circUng round 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 205 

The love he bore to learning was in fault ; 

The village all declared how much he knew : 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides pre- 
sage, 209 

And even the story ran that he could gauge ; 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 

For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue 
stiU; 

While words of learned length and thunder- 
ing sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder 
grew, 215 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is aU his fame. The very spot 

Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 

Where once the sign-post caught the passing 
eye, 220 

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 
inspired, 

Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil re- 
tired. 

Where village statesmen talked with looks pro- 
found, 

And news much older than their ale went 
round. 

Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225 

The parlour splendours of that festive place : 

The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded 
floor, . 

The varnished clock that clicked behind the 
door; 

The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 

The pictures placed for ornament and use. 

The twelve good niles, ^ the royal game of 
goose;'- 232 

The hearth, except when winter chUl'd the 
day, 

With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel 
.gay; 

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 

Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened m a row. 
Yain transitory splendours ! could not all 

Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 

^ a card containing maxims of conduct attrib- 
uted to Charles I - a game much Uke Parchesi 



Obscure it sinks, nor shaU it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 241 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shaU clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to 

hear ; 246 

The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss ^ go round; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250 
Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 
The sovd adopts, and owns their first born 

sway; 256 

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth ar-- 

rayed — 260 

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The tofling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrustuig asks if this be joy. 
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who 

survey 265 

The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and an happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted 

ore, 269 

And shouting Folly hails them from her 

shore ; 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains ! This wealth is but a 

name 2 74 

That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loSi3. The man of wealth and 

pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half 

their growth; 280 

His seat,- where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : 

^ i.e., foaming ale ^ great house 



328 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 



Around the world each, needful product flies, 
For aU the luxuries the world supplies ; ^ 
While thus the land adorned for pleasure all 
In 'barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 286 

As some fair female unadorned and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress sup- 
plies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past, for charms 

are frail, 291 

When time advances, and when lovers faU, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed : 295 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed, 
But verging to decline, its splendours rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling 

land 299 

The mournful peasant leads his humble band. 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 

The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty 

reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And even the bare-worn common ^ is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 310 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 314 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist ' plies the sickly trade ; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps 

display, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight 

reign 319 

Here, richly deckt, admits the,gorgeous train : 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing 

square. 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'en annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn 

thine eyes 325 

^ i.e., useful products are exchanged for luxu- 
ries ^ a field in which all villagers were entitled 
to pasture their cattle free ^ artisan 



Where the poor houseless shivering female 

lies. 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty, blest, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the 

thorn : 330 

Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
And, pinch 'd with cold, and shrinking from 

the shovs^er. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335 
She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the love- 
liest train, — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they 

go, 
Where wild Altama ^ murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charm 'd 

before, 345 

The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods, where birds forget to 

sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 350 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance 

crowned. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death 

around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless 

prey, _ 355 

And savage men more murderous still than 

they; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the 

skies. 
Far different these from every former scene. 
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green. 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 361 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that 

parting day, 
That called them from their native walks 

away; 

^ the Altamaha river, in Georgia 



RETALIATION 



329 



When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked 

their last, 366 

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main. 
And shuddermg stUl to face the distant deep, 
Retvirned and wept, and stUl returned to weep. 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 371 
To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her 

woes. 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose. 
And kist her thoughtless babes with many a 

tear 381 

And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear, 
WTaUst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for 

thee ! 386 

How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms b)^ thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 390 
At every draught more large and large they 

grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapped their strength, and every part un- 
sound, 
Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin 

round. 
Even now the devastation is begun, 395 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I 

stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 

sail, 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 405 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 409 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 



Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me 

so ; 414 

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewell, and oh 1 where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs,^ or Pambamarca's side,^ 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow. 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength 

possest, 
Tho' very poor, may still be very blest ; 426 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift 

decay, 
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.^ 430 

From RETALIATION 



At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? 
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm 

able. 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my 

head, 21 

Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the 

dead. 
Here lies the good Dean,^ reunited to earth. 
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom 

with mirth. 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, 
At least in six weeks I could not find them 

out; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be 

denied them, 
That Slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide 

them. 
Here lies our good Edmund,^ whose genius 

was such, 29 

We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much ; 

^ on the boundary between Russia and Sweden 
^ a mountain in Ecuador ^ Lines 427-30 were 
added by Dr. Johnson. ' Dr. Barnard, Dean of 
Derry ^ Edmund Burke 



33° 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 



Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his 
mind. 

And to party gave up what was meant for 
mankind : 

Though fraught with all learning, yet strain- 
ing his throat 

To persuade Tommy Townshend ^ to lend him 
a vote ; 

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on 
refining. 

And thought of convincing, while they 
thought of dining ; 

Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 

Too nice ^ for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 

For a patriot too cool; for a drudge diso- 
bedient ; 

And too fond of the right to pursue the expe- 
dient. 40 

In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in 
place, Sir, 

To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a 
razor. 



Here Cumberland^ lies, having acted his 

parts. 
The Terence of England, the mender of 

hearts ; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they 

are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women 

divine. 
And Comedy vv^onders at being so fine ; 
Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out. 
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows 

proud ; 70 

And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their 

own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 
Or wherefore his characters thus without 

fault? 
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them 

few, 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? 



^ a member of Parliament ^ fastidious ^ Richard 
Cumberland, dramatist 



Here lies David Garrick,^ describe him who 

can? 
An abridgment of aU that was pleasant in 

man; 
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; 
Yet with talents like these, and an excellent 

heart. 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art ; 
Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he 

spread, 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural 

red. 100 

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting, 
'Twas only that when he was ofl" he was act- 
ing ; 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : 
Tho' secure of oui hearts, yet confoundedly 

sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and 

trick ; 
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack, 
For he knew when he pleased he coiild whistle 

them back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what 

came, 109 

And the puff of a dimce he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. 
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind : 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kell3^s, and Woodfalls so 

grave,^ 
What a commerce was yours, while you got 

and you gave ! 
How did Grub Street ^ re-echo the shouts that 

you raised. 
When he was be-Roscius'd,* and you were be- 

praised ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. 
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies ! 
Those poets who owe their best fame to his 

skill, 121 

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and 

A\dth love. 
And Beaumonts and Bens^ be his Kellys 

above. 



^ the greatest actor of his day ^ dramatists 
and critics of the time ^ where hack-writers lived 
^ Roscius was the greatest comic actor of ancient 
Rome. ^ Ben Jonson and the like 



EDMUND BURKE 



331 



Here Reynolds ^ is laid, and to tell you my 

mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind. 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
His manners were gentle, complying, and 

bland ; 
Still born to improve us in every part, 141 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
When they judged without skill he was still ^ 

hard of hearing ; 
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correg- 

gios and stuff. 
He shifted his tnimpet,^ and only took snuff. 



EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797) 

From SPEECH ON THE NABOB OF 
ARGOT'S DEBTS 



The great fortunes made in India, in the 
beginnings of conquest, naturally excited an 
emulation in all the parts and through the 
whole succession of the Company's service. 
But in the Company it gave rise to other sen- 
timents. They did not lind the new channels 
of acquisition flow with equal riches to them. 
On the contrary, the high flood-tide of private 
emolument was generally in the lowest ebb of 
their affairs. They began also to fear that the 
fortune of war might take away what the for- 
tune of war had given. Wars were accord- 
ingly discouraged by repeated injunctions and 
menaces : and that the servants might not be 
bribed into them by the native princes, they 
were strictly forbidden to take any money 
whatsoever from their hands. But vehement 
passion is ingenious in resources. The Com- 
pany's servants were not only stimxilated, but 
better instructed by the prohibition. They 
soon fell upon a contrivance which answered 
their purposes far better than the methods 
which were forbidden : though in this also 
they violated an ancient, but they thought, an 
abrogated order. Thej^ reversed their pro- 
ceedings. Instead of receiving presents, they 
made loans. Instead of carrying on wars in 
their own name, they contrived an authority, 

^ Sir Joshua Re\Tiolds, the most famous Eng- 
lish painter of the time ^ always ^ ear-trumpet 



at once irresistible and irresponsible, in whose 
name they might ravage at pleasure ; and 
being thus freed from all restraint, they in- 
diilged themselves in the most extravagant 
spectdations of plunder. The cabal ^ of cred- 
itors who have been the object of the late 
bountiful grant from his Majesty's ministers, 
in order to possess themselves, under the name 
of creditors and assignees, of every country 
in India, as fast as it should be conquered, 
inspired into the mind of the Nabob of Arcot ^ 
(then a dependent on the Company of the 
humblest order) a scheme of the most wild 
and desperate ambition that I believe ever 
was admitted into the thoughts of a man so 
situated. First, they persuaded him to con- 
sider himself as a principal member in the 
poHtical system of Europe. In the next 
place, they held out to him, and he readily 
imbibed, the idea of the general empire of 
Hindostan. As a preliminary to this imder- 
taking, they prevailed on him to propose a 
tripartite division of that vast countiy: one 
part to the Company ; another to the Mahrat- 
tas ; ^ and the third to himself. To himself he 
reserved all the southern part of the great 
peninsula, comprehended under the general 
name of the Deccan. 

On this scheme of their servants, the Com- 
pany was to appear in the Carnatic' in no other 
light than as a contractor for the provision of 
armies, and the hire of mercenaries for his use 
and under his direction. This disposition was 
to be secured by the Nabob's putting himself 
under the guaranty of France, and, by the 
means of that rival nation, preventing the 
English forever from assuming an equality, 
much less a superiority, in the Carnatic. In 
pursuance of this treasonable project, (trea- 
sonable on the part of the English,) they 
extinguished the Company as a sovereign 
power in that part of India ; they withdrew 
the Company's garrisons out of all the forts 
and strongholds of the Carnatic ; they de- 
clined to receive the ambassadors from foreign 
courts, and remitted them to the Nabob of 
Arcot ; they fell upon, and totally destroyed, 
the oldest ally of the Company, the king of 
Tanjore,^ and plundered the country to the 

^ conspiracy ' a city west and a little south of 
Madras ^ a warlike race of western and central 
India ■* a district on the eastern coast of India, 
now a part of the province of Madras ^ a s'tate 
southwest of Madras 



332 



EDMUND BURKE 



amount of near five millions sterling; one 
after another, in the Nabob's name, but with 
English force, they brought into a miserable 
servitude all the princes and great independent 
nobility of a vast country. In proportion to 
these treasons and violences, which ruined the 
people, the fund of the Nabob's debt grew and 
flourished. 

Among the victims to this magnificent plan 
of universal plunder, worthy of the heroic 
avarice of the projectors, you have all heard 
(and he has made himself to be well remem- 
bered) of an Indian chief called Hyder Ali 
Khan. This man possessed the western, as 
the Company, under the name of the Nabob 
of Arcot, does the eastern division of the 
Carnatic. It was among the leading measures 
in the design of this cabal (according to their 
own emphatic language) to extirpate this 
Hyder Ali. They declared the Nabob of 
Arcot to be his sovereign, and himself to be a 
rebel, and publicly invested their instrument 
with the sovereignty of the kingdom of My- 
sore.^ But their victim was not of the passive 
kind. They were soon obliged to conclude a 
treaty of peace and close alliance with this 
rebel, at the gates of Madras. Both before 
and since that treaty, every principle of policy 
pointed out this power as a natural alliance ; 
and on his part it was courted by every sort of 
amicable office. But the cabinet council of 
English creditors would not suffer their Nabob 
of Arcot to sign the treaty, nor even to give 
to a prince at least his equal the ordinary titles 
of respect and courtesy. From that time for- 
ward, a continued plot was carried on within 
the divan,^ black and white, of the Nabob of 
Arcot, for the destruction of Hyder Ali. As 
to the outward members of the double, or 
rather treble government of Madras, which 
had signed the treaty, they were always pre- 
vented by some overruling influence (which 
they do not describe, but which cannot be 
misunderstood) from performing what jus- 
tice and interest combined so evidently to 
enforce. 

When at length Hyder Ali found that he had 
to do with men who either would sign no con- 
vention, or whom no treaty and no signature 
could bind, and who were the determined 
enemies of human intercourse itself, he decreed 
to make the country possessed by these in- 

^ a state west of Madras - council of govern- 
ment 



corrigible and predestinated criminals a mem- 
orable example to mankind. He resolved, in 
the gloomy recesses of a mind capacious of 
such things, to leave the whole Carnatic an 
everlasting monument of vengeance, and to 
put perpetual desolation as a barrier between 
him and those against whom the faith which 
holds the moral elements of the world together 
was no protection. He became at length so 
confident of his force, so coUected in his might, 
that he made no secret whatsoever of his 
dreadful resolution. Having terminated his 
disputes with every enemy and every rival, 
who buried their mutual animosities in their 
common detestation against the creditors of 
the Nabob of Arcot, he drew from every 
quarter whatever a savage ferocity could add 
to his new rudiments in the arts of destruction ; 
and compounding all the materials of fury, 
havoc, and desolation into one black cloud, 
he hung for a while on the declivities of the 
mountains. Whilst the authors of all these 
evils were idly and stupidly gazing on this 
menacing meteor, which blackened aU their 
horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down 
the whole of its contents upon the plains of the 
Carnatic. Then ensued a scene of woe, the 
like of which no eye had seen, no heart con- 
ceived, and which no tongue can adequately 
tell. AU the horrors of war before known or 
heard of were mercy to that new havoc. A 
storm of universal fire blasted every field, con- 
sumed every house, destroyed every temple. 
The miserable inhabitants, flying from their 
flaming vfllages, in part were slaughtered; 
others, without regard to sex, to age, to the 
respect of rank or sacredness of function, 
fathers torn from children, husbands from 
wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry, 
and amidst the goading spears of drivers, and 
the trampling of pursuing horses, were swept 
into captivity in an unknown and hostile land. 
Those who were able to evade this tempest 
fled to the walled cities ; but escaping from 
fire, sword, and exile, they fell into the jaws of 
famine. 

The alms of the settlement, in this dreadful 
exigency, were certainly liberal ; and all was 
done by charity that private charity could do : 
but it was a people in beggary ; it was a nation 
which stretched out its hands for food. For 
months together, these creatures of suft'erance, 
whose very excess and luxury in their most 
plenteous days had fallen short of the allow- 
ance of our austerest fasts, silent, patient, 



SPEECH ON THE NABOB OF ARGOT'S DEBTS 



333 



resigned, without sedition or disturbance, 
almost without complaint, perished by an hun- 
dred a day in the streets of Madras ; every day 
sevent}^ at least laid their bodies in the streets 
or on the glacis ^ of Tanjore, and expired of 
famine in the granary of India. I was going 
to awake your justice towards this unhappy 
part of our fellow-citizens, by bringing before 
you some of the circumstances of this plague 
of hunger : of all the calamities which beset 
and waylay the life of man, this comes the 
nearest to our heart, and is that wherein the 
proudest of us all feels himself to be nothing 
more than he is : but I find myself unable to 
manage it with decorum ; these details are of a 
species of horror so nauseous and disgusting, 
they are so degrading to the sufferers and to 
the hearers, they are so humiliating to human 
nature itself, that, on better thoughts, I find 
it more advisable to throw a paU over this 
hideous object, and to leave it to your general 
conceptions. 

For eighteen months, without intermission, 
this destruction raged from the gates, of 
Madras to the gates of Tanjore ; and so com- 
pletely did these masters in their art, Hyder 
Ali and his more ferocious son, absolve them- 
selves of their impious vow, that, when the 
British armies traversed, as they did, the 
Carnatic for hundreds of miles in all directions, 
through the whole line of their march they did 
not see one man, not one woman, not one 
child, not one four-footed beast of any de- 
scription whatever. One dead, uniform 
silence reigned over the whole region. With 
the inconsiderable exceptions of the narrow 
vicinage of some few forts, I wish to be 
understood as speaking literally. I mean to 
produce to you more than three witnesses, 
above all exception, who will support this 
assertion in its full extent. That hurricane 
of war passed through every part of the 
central provinces of the Carnatic. Six or 
seven districts to the north and to the south 
(and these not wholly untouched) escaped the 
general ravage. 

The Carnatic is a countr}^ not much infe- 
rior in extent to England. Figure to yourself, 
Mr. Speaker, the land in whose representative 
chair you sit ; figure to yourself the form and 
fashion of your sweet and cheerful country 
from Thames to Trent, north and south, and 
from the Irish to the German Sea, east and 



west, emptied and embowelled (may God 
avert the omen of our crimes !) by so accom- 
plished a desolation. Extend your imagina- 
tion a little further, and then suppose your 
ministers taking a survey of these scenes of 
v/aste and desolation. What would be your 
thoughts, if you should be informed that they 
were computing how much had been the 
amount of the excises, how much the customs, 
how much the land and m.alt tax, in order that 
they should charge (take it in the most favour- 
able light) for public service, upon the relics 
of the satiated vengeance of relentless enemies, 
the whole of what England had yielded in the 
most exuberant seasons of peace and abun- 
dance ? What would you call it ? To call it 
tyranny sublimed into madness would be too. 
faint an image; yet this very madness is 
the principle upon which the ministers at your 
right hand have proceeded in their estimate 
of the revenues of the Carnatic, when they 
were providing, not supply for the establish- 
ments of its protection, but rewards for the 
authors of its ruin. 

Every day you are fatigued and disgusted 
with this cant, "The Carnatic is a country 
that will soon recover, and become instantly 
as prosperous as ever." They think they are 
talking to innocents, who will beUeve, that, by 
sowing of dragons' teeth, men may come up 
ready grown and ready armed .^ They who 
will give themselves the trouble of considering 
(for it requires no great reach of thought, no 
very profound knowledge) the manner in 
which mankind are increased, and countries 
cultivated, will regard aU this raving as it 
ought to be regarded. In order that the 
people, after a long period of vexation and 
plunder, may be in a condition to maintain 
government, government must begin by main- 
. taining them. Here the road to economy lies 
not through receipt, but through expense; 
and in that country Nature has given no 
short cut to your object. Men must propa- 
gate, like other animals, by the mouth. 
Never did oppression light the nuptial torch ; 
never did extortion and usury spread out the 
genial bed. Does any of you think that 
England, so wasted, would, under such a 
nursing attendance, so rapidly and cheaply 
recover? But he is meanly acquainted with 
either England or India who does not know 
that England v.'ould a thousand times sooner 



^ a sloping bank in a fortification 



^ Cf. footnote on p. 210, above 



334 



EDMUND BURKE 



resume population, fertility, and what ought to 
be the ultimate secretion from both, revenue, 
than such a country as the Carnatic. 

The Carnatic is not by the bounty of Nature 
a fertUe soil. The general size of its cattle is 
proof enough that it is much otherwise. It is 
some days since I moved that a curious and 
interesting map, kept in the India house, 
should be laid before you. The India House is 
not yet in readiness to send it ; I have there- 
fore brought down my own copy, and there it 
lies for the use of any gentleman who may 
think such a matter worthy of his attention. 
It is, indeed, a noble map, and of noble things ; 
but it is decisive against the golden dreams 
and sanguine speculations of avarice run mad. 
In addition to what you know must be the 
case in every part of the world, (the necessity 
of a previous provision of habitation, seed, 
stock, capital,) that map will show you that 
the uses of the influences of Heaven itself are 
in that country a work of art. The Car- 
natic is refreshed by few or no living brooks 
or running streams, and it has rain only at a 
season ; but its product of rice exacts the use 
of water subject to perpetual command. 
This is the national bank of the Carnatic, on 
which it must have a perpetual credit, or it 
perishes irretrievably. For that reason, in 
the happier times of India, a number, almost 
incredible, of reservoirs have been made in 
chosen places throughout the whole country : 
they are formed, for the greater part, of 
mounds of earth and stones, with sluices of 
solid masonry ; the whole constructed with 
admirable skill and labour, and maintained at 
a mighty charge. In the territory contained 
in that map alone, I have been at the trouble 
of reckoning the reservoirs, and they amount 
to upwards of eleven hundred, from the extent 
of two or three acres to five miles in circuit. 
From these reservoirs currents are occasionally 
drawn over the fields, and these watercourses 
again call for a considerable expense to keep 
them properly scoured and duly levelled. Tak- 
ing the district in that map as a measure, 
there cannot be in the Carnatic and Tanjore 
fewer than ten thousand of these reservoirs 
of the larger and middling dimensions, to say 
nothing of those for domestic services, and the 
use of religious purification. These are not 
the enterprises of your power, nor in a style of 
magnificence suited to the taste of your minis- 
ter. These are the monuments of real kings, 
who were the fathers of their people, — testa- 



tors to a posterity which they embraced as 
their own. These are the grand sepulchres 
buUt by ambition, — but by the ambition of 
an insatiable benevolence, which, not con- 
tented with reigning in the dispensation of 
happiness during the contracted term of 
human life, had strained, with all the Teach- 
ings and graspings of a vivacious mind, to 
extend the dominion of their bounty beyond 
the limits of Nature, and to perpetuate them- 
selves through generations of generations, the 
guardians, the protectors, the nourishers of 
mankind. 

Long before the late invasion, the persons 
who are objects of the grant of public money 
now before you had so diverted the supply 
of the pious funds of culture and population, 
that everywhere the reservoirs were fallen into 
a miserable decay. But after those domestic 
enemies had provoked the entry of a cruel 
foreign foe into the country, he did not leave 
it, until his revenge had completed the de- 
struction begun by their avarice. Few, very 
few. indeed, of these magazines of water that 
are not either totally destroyed, or cut through 
with such gaps as to require a serious atten- 
tion and much cost to reestablish them, as the 
means of present subsistence to the people and 
of future revenue to the state. 

What, Sir, would a virtuous and enlightened 
ministry do, on the view of the ruins of such 
works before them ? — on the view of such 
a chasm of desolation as that which yawned in 
the midst of those countries, to the north and 
south, which still bore some vestiges of culti- 
vation? They would have reduced all their 
most necessary establishments; they would 
have suspended the justest payments ; they 
woiild have employed every shilling derived 
from the producing to reanimate the powers 
of the unproductive parts. WhUe they were 
performing this fundamental duty, whilst 
they were celebrating these mysteries of jus- 
tice and humanity, they would have told the 
corps of fictitious creditors, whose crimes were 
their claims, that they must keep an awful dis- 
tance, — that they must silence their inau- 
spicious tongues, — that they must hold off 
their profane, unhallowed paws from this 
holy work ; they would have proclaimed, with 
a voice that should make itself heard, that 
on every country the first creditor is the 
plough, — that this original, indefeasible 
claim supersedes every other demand. 

This is what a wise and virtuous ministry 



REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE 



335 



would have done and said. This, therefore, 
is what our minister could never think of 
saying or doing. A ministry of another kind 
would have first improved the country, and 
have thus laid a solid foundation for future 
opulence and future force. But on this grand 
point of the restoration of the country there is 
not one syllable to be found in the correspon- 
dence of our ministers, from the first to the 
last ; they felt nothing for a land desolated by 
fire, sword, and famine : their sympathies took 
another direction ; they were touched with 
pity for bribery, so long tormented with a 
fruitless itching of its palms ; their bowels 
yearned for usury, that had long missed the 
harvest of its returning months ; they felt for 
peculation, which had been for so many years 
raking in the dust of an empty treasury; 
they were melted into compassion for rapine 
and o]:*pression, licking their dry, parched, 
unbloody jaws. These were the objects of 
their solicitude. These were the necessities 
for which they were studious to provide. . . . 

From REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLU- 
TION IN FRANCE 



It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I 
saw the queen of France, then the Dauphin- 
ess,^ at Versailles ; and surely never lighted 
on this orb, which she hardly seemed to 
touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her 
just above the horizon, decorating and cheer- 
ing the elevated sphere she just began to move 
in, — glittering like the morning-star, full of 
life and splendour and joy. Oh ! what a revo- 
lution! and what an heart must I have, to 
contemplate without emotion that elevation 
and that faU ! Little did I dream, when she 
added titles of veneration to those of enthu- 
siastic, distant, respectful love, that she should 
ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote 
against disgrace concealed in that bosom ! 
httle did I dream that I should have lived to 
see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation 
of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour, 
and of cavaliers ! I thought ten thousand 
swords must have leaped from their scab- 
bards to avenge even a look that threatened 
her with insult. But the age of chivalry is 
gone. That of sophisters, economists, and 

^ wife of the crown prince 



calculators has succeeded; and the glory of 
Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never 
more, shall we behold that generous loyalty 
to rank and sex, that proud submission, that 
dignified obedience, that subordination of 
the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude 
itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom ! The 
unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of 
nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and 
heroic enterprise, is gone ! It is gone, that 
sensibility of principle, that chastity of 
honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which 
inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, 
which ennobled whatever it touched, and 
under which vice itself lost half its evil by los- 
ing all its grossness ! 

The mixed system of opinion and sentiment 
had its origin in the ancient chivalry ; and the 
principle, though varied in its appearance by 
the varying state of human aft'airs, subsisted 
and influenced through a long succession of 
generations, even to the time we five in. If it 
should ever be totally extinguished, the loss, 
I fear, will be great. It is this which has given 
its character to modern Europe. It is this 
which has distiBgiiished it under aU its fornis 
of government, and distinguished it to its ad- 
vantage, from the states of Asia, and possibly 
from those states which flourished in the most 
brilliant periods of the antique world. It was 
this, which, without confounding ranks, had 
produced a noble equality, and handed it 
down through all the gradations of social Hfe. 
It was this opinion which mitigated kings into 
companions, and raised private men to be 
fellows with kings. Without force or opposi- 
tion, it subdued the fierceness of pride and 
power ; it obliged sovereigns to submit to the 
soft collar of social esteem, compelled stern 
authority to submit to elegance, and gave a 
domination, vanquisher of laws, to be sub- 
dued by manners. 

But now aU is to be changed. All the pleas- 
ing illusions which made power gentle and 
obedience liberal, Avhich harmonised the dif- 
ferent shades of life, and which by a bland 
assimilation incorporated into poHtics the 
sentiments which beautify and soften private 
society, are to be dissolved by this new con- 
quering empire of light and reason. All the 
decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn off. 
All the superadded ideas, furnished from the 
wardrobe of a moral imagination, which the 
heart owns and the understanding ratifies, as 
necessary to cover the defects of our naked, 



336 



WILLIAM COWPER 



shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity in 
our own estimation, are to be exploded as a 
ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion. 



WILLIAM COWPER (i 731-1800) 

THE TASK 
From BOOK I 

There often wanders one, whom better days 
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed 535 
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. 
A serving-maid was she, and fell in love 
With one who left her, went to sea, and died. 
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves 
To distant shores, and she would sit and weep 
At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too, 541 

Delusive most where warmest wishes are. 
Would oft anticipate his glad return, 
And dream of transports she was not to know. 
She heard the doleful tidings of his death, 545 
And never smiled again. And now she roams 
The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong 

day. 
And there, unless when charity forbids. 
The hvelong night. A tattered apron hides, 
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown 550 
More tattered still ; and both but ill conceal 
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. 
She begs an idle pin of aU she meets. 
And hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful 

food. 
Though pressed with hunger oft, or comeUer 

clothes, 555 

Though pinched with cold, asks never. — 

Kate is crazed. 
I see a column of slow-rising smoke 
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. 
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat 
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 
Between two poles upon a stick transverse. 
Receives the morsel ; flesh obscene of dog. 
Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined 
From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring 

race ! 
They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 565 
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un- 

quenched 
The spark of life. The sportive wind blows 

wide 
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin. 
The vellum of the pedigree they claim. 



Great skill have they in palmistry, and more 
To conjure clean away the gold they touch. 
Conveying worthless dross into its place; 572 
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they 

steal. 
Strange! that a creature rational, and cast 
In human mould, should brutalize by choice 
His nature, and, though capable of arts 576 
By which the world might profit and himself, 
Self banished from society, prefer 
Such squalid sloth to honourable toil! 
Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft. 
They swathe the forehead, drag the limping 
limb, 581 

And vex their flesh with artificial sores, 
Can change their whine into a mirthful note 
When safe occasion offers; and with dance, 
And music of the bladder and the bag,^ 585 
Beguile their woes, and make the woods re- 
sound. » 
Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy 
The houseless rovers' of the sylvan world ; 
And breathing wholesome air, and wandering 

much, 
Need other physic none to heal the eft'ects 590 
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. 



From BOOK II 

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,^ 
Some boundless contiguity of shade. 
Where rumour of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful or successfxil war, 
Might never reach me more ! My ear is 
pained, 5 

My soul is sick with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. 
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart. 
It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 10 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not coloured like his own, and, having power 
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 1 5 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 
Make enemies of nations who had else 
Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
And worse than all, and most to be deplored. 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 22 

^ bagpipe ^ Cf . Jeremiah, ix : 2 



THE TASK 



337 



Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his 

sweat 
With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding 

heart. 
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 25 
Then what is man ? And what man seeing 

this. 
And having human feehngs, does not blush 
And hang his head, to think himself a man? 
I would not have a slave to till my groiuid, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 30 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave 35 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home. — Then why 

abroad ? 
And they themselves once ferried o'er the 

wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England ; ^ if their 

lungs 40 

Receive our air, that moment they are free, 
They touch out country, and their shackles 

fall. 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then. 
And let it circulate through every vein 
Of all your empire ; that where Britain's 

power 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 47 



From BOOK V 

'Tis morning ; and the sun with ruddy orb 
Ascending, fires the horizon : while the clouds 
That crowd away before the driving wind, 
More ardent as the disk emerges more, 
Resemble most some city in a blaze, 5 

Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting 

ray 
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, 
And tinging all with his own rosy hue, 
From ever>' herb and every spiry blade 
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 10 
Mine, spindling into longitude immense. 
In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
That I myself am but a fleeting shade, 

' the decision of Chief Justice Lord Mansfield, 
June 22, 1772 



Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
I view the muscular proportioned limb 15 
Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless 

pair. 
As they designed to mock me, at my side 
Take step for step ; and as I near approach 
The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, 
Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man. 
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 21 
Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents ^ 
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest. 
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, 25 
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. 
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence 
Screens them, and seem half-petrified to sleep 
In' unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
Their wonted fodder, not like hungering man, 
Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek, 31 
And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
He from the stack carves out the accustomed 

load. 
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft, 
His broad keen kiiife into the solid mass; 35 
Smooth as a waU the upright remnant stands. 
With such undeviating and even force 
He severs it away : no needless care 
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile 
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 40 
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned 
The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe 
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, 
From morn to eve his solitary task. 
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed 

ears 45 

And tail cropped short, half lurcher ^ and half 

cur. 
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
Now creeps he slow ; and now with many a 

frisk 
Wide scampering, snatches up the drifted snow 
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; 
Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for 

joy. 51 

Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl 
Moves right toward the mark ; nor stops for 

aught, 
But now and then with pressure of his thumb 
To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube 
That fumes beneath his nose : the trailing 

cloud 56 

Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. 

^ wiry grass ^ a cross between greyhound 
and sheep-dog, keen both of sight and of scent 



338 



WILLIAM COWPER 



Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring 

pale, 
Where, dUigent to catch the first faint gleam 
Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, 60 
Come trooping at the housewife's well-known 

call 
The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing, 
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, 
Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. 
The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering 

eaves 65 

To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye 
The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved 
To escape the impending famine, often scared 
As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 69 

Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 
Remains to each, the search of sunny nook. 
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned 
To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
His wonted strut, and wading at their head 
With well-considered steps, seems to resent 75 
His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. 



His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 25 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tears that England owes. 

Her timbers are yet sound. 

And she may float again 30 

Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main. 



But Kempenfelt is gone. 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 



35 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S 
PICTURE 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL 
GEORGE 

ToU for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave. 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel. 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset ; 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

ToU for the brave ! 

Brave Kempenfelt ^ is gone ; 
His last sea-fight is fought ; 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; . 

She ran upon no rock. 

^ rear-admiral of the fleet 



IS- 



Oh that those Ups had language ! Life has 

passed 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I 

see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
"Grieve not, my chfld, chase all thy fears 

away !" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Bless'd be the art that can immortalise. 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithfrd remembrancer of one so dear, 1 1 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst me honour with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,^ 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 20 
My mother ! when I learnt that thou wast 
dead ^ 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 

^ fifty-two years ^ He was only six when she 
died. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 



339 



Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss : 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! It answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
And turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 31 
But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art 

gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my Hps no more ! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my con- 
cern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wished I long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled, 40 

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 
more, 
Children not thine have trod my nurseiy floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 
'Tis now become a history little known, 52 
That once we called the pastoral house ^ our 

own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair 
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there. 
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly 

laid ; 
Thy morning boimties ere I left my home, 60 
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 

glowed ; 
AH this, and more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes 
That humour interposed too often makes ; 
All this still legible in memory's page, 
And stiU to be so' to my latest age. 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70 
Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 

^ the rectory 



Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed 

here. 
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the 

hours. 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued 

flowers. 
The violet, the pink, and jassamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Woxfldst softly speak, and stroke my head and 

smile) , 
Could. those few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 

here? 81 

I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — ■ 
But no — what here we caU our life is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean 

crossed) 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 90 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons 

smile. 
There sits quiescent on the floods that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached 

the shore, 
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar." 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100 
Always from port withheld, always dis- 
tressed — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost, 
Safls ripped, seams opening wide, and com- 
pass lost. 
And day by day some current's thwarting 

force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and 

he! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents passed into the skies ! in 
And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wished is 

done. 



340 



JAMES MACPHERSON 



By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renewed the joys that once were 

mine. 
Without the sin of violating thine : 
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 1 19 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 

JAMES MACPHERSON (?) 

(1736-1796) 

THE POEMS OF OSSIAN 

From CATH-LODAi 

DUAN III 

Whence is the stream of years? Whither 
do they roll along ? Where have they hid, in 
mist, their many coloured sides? 

I look unto the times of old, but they seem 
dim to Ossian's eyes, like reflected moonbeams 
on a distant lake. Here rise the red beams 
of war ! There, sUent, dwells a feeble race ! 
They mark no years with their deeds, as slow 
they pass along. Dweller between the 
shields ! thou that awakest the failmg soul ! 
descend from thy wall, harp of Cona,^ with thy 
voices three ! Come with that which kindles 
the past : rear the forms of old, on their own 
dark-brown years ! 

U-thorno, hUl of storms, I behold my race 
on thy side. Fingal is bending in night over 
Duth-maruno's tomb. Near him are the steps 
of his heroes, hunters of the boar. By Tur- 
thor's stream the host of Lochlin ^ is deep in 
shades. The wrathful kings'* stood on two 
hills : they looked forward from their bossy 
shields. They looked forward to the stars 
of night, red wandering in the west. Cruth- 
loda ^ bends from high, like a formless meteor 
in clouds. He sends abroad the winds, and 
marks them with his signs. Starno foresaw 
that Morven's king® was not to 3deld in war. 

He twice struck the tree in wrath. He 
rushed before his son. He hummed a surly 
song, and heard his hair in wind. Turned 



from one another, they stood, like two oaks, 
which different winds had bent ; each hangs 
over his own loud rill, and shakes his boughs 
in the course of blasts. 

"Annir,"^ said Starno of lakes, "was a fire 
that consumed of old. He poured death from 
his eyes along the striving fields. His joy was 
in the fall of men. Blood to him was a sum- 
mer stream, that brings joy to the withered 
vales, from its own mossy rock. He came 
forth to the lake Luth-cormo, to meet the tall 
Corman-trunar, he from Urlor of streams, 
dweller of battle's wing. 

" The chief of Urlor had come to Gormal 
with his dark-bosomed ships. He saw the 
daughter of Annir, white-armed Foina-bragal. 
He saw her ! Nor careless rolled her eyes on 
the rider of stormy waves. She fled to his 
ship in darkness, like a moonbeam through a 
nightly veil. Annir pursued along the deep ; 
he called the winds of heaven. Nor alone was 
the king ! Starno was by his side. Like 
U-thorno's young eagle, I turned my eyes on 
my father. 

" We rushed into roaring ^ Urlor. With his 
people came tall Corman-trunar. We fought ; 
but the foe prevailed. In his wrath my 
father stood. He lopped the young trees with 
his sword. His eyes rolled red in his rage. 
I marked the soul of the king, and I retired - 
in night. From the field I took a broken hel- 
met ; a shield that was pierced with steel ; 
pointless was the spear in my hand. I went 
to find the foe. 

" On a rock sat tall Corman-trunar beside 
his burning oak ; and near him beneath a tree, 
sat deep-bosomed Foina-bragal. I threw my 
broken shield before her. I spoke the words 
of peace. ' Beside his rolling sea lies Annir of 
many lakes. The king was pierced in battle ; 
and Starno is to raise his tomb.^ Me, a son of 
Loda,- he sends to white-handed Foina, to bid 
her send a lock from her hair, to rest with her 
father in earth. And thou, king of roaring 
Urlor, let the battle cease, till Annir receive 
the shell ^ from fiery-eyed Cruth-loda.' ® 

" Bursting into tears, she rose, and tore a lock 
from her hair ; a lock, which wandered in the 
blast, along her heaving breast. Corman- 
trunar gave the shell,'' and bade me rejoice 



^ the Battle of Loda ^ the home of Ossian 
' Norway * Starno, king of Lochlin, or Norway, 
and Swaran, his son and heir ^ Odin, chief god 
of the Norsemen ® Fingal (of Scotland) 



^ father of Starno ' because of its many 
streams ^ This was untrue. ''He was disguised. 
^ Shells were used as drinking-cups. ® i.e., in Val- 
halla, the heaven of heroes '' offered drink 



JAMES EOSWELL 



341 



before him. I rested in the shade of night, and 
hid my face in my helmet deep. Sleep de- 
scended on the foe. I rose, like a stalking 
ghost. I pierced the side of Corman-trunar. 
Nor did Foina-brugal escape. She rolled her 
white bosom in blood. 

" Why, then, daughter of heroes, didst thou 
wake my rage? 

" Morning rose. The foe were fled, like the 
departure of mist. Annir struck his bossy 
shield. He called his dark-haired son. I 
came, streaked with wandering blood : thrice 
rose the shout of the king, like the bursting 
forth of a squall of wind from a cloud by 
night. We rejoiced three days above the 
dead, and called the hawks of heaven. They 
came from all their winds to feast on Annir's 
foes. 

" Swaran, Fingal is alone in his hill of night. 
Let thy spear pierce the king in secret ; like 
Annir, my soul shall rejoice." 

"Son of Annir," said Swaran, "I shall not 
slay in shades : I move forth in light : the 
hawks rush from all their winds. They are 
wont to trace my course : it is not harmless 
through war." 

Burning rose the rage of the king.^ He 
thrice raised his gleaming spear. But, start- 
ing, he spared his son, and rushed into the 
night. By Turthor's stream, a cave is dark, 
the dwelling of Corban-cargla.^ There he laid 
the helmet of kings, and called the maid of 
Lulan ; but she was distant far in Loda's re- 
sounding hall.^ 

Swelling in his rage, he strode to where 
Fingal lay alone. The king was laid on his 
shield, on his own secret hill. 

Stern hunter of shaggy boars ! no feeble 
maid is laid before thee. No boy on his ferny 
bed, by Turthor's murmuring stream. Here 
is spread the couch of the mighty, from which 
they rise to deeds of death ! Flunter of shaggy 
boars, awaken not the terrible ! 

Starno came murmuring on. Fingal arose 
in arms. "Who art thou, son of night!" 
Silent he threw the spear. They mixed their 
gloomy strife. The shield of Starno fell, cleft 
in twain. He is bound to an oak. The early 
beam arose. It was then Fingal beheld the 
king. He rolled awhile his silent eyes. He 
thought of other days, when white-bosomed 

^ Starno ^ the maid of Lulan, beloved by 
Starno, but in love with Swaran ^ i.e., she was 
dead 

AE 



Agandecca^ moved like the music of songs. 
He loosed the thong from his hands. "Son of 
Annir," he said, "retire. Retire to Gormal of 
shells ; ^ a beam that was set returns. I re- 
member thy white-bosomed daughter ; dread- 
ful king, away ! Go to thy troubled dwelling, 
cloudy foe of the lovely. Let the stranger 
shun thee, thou gloomy in the hall I" 
A tale of the times of old ! 

JAMES BOSWELL (i 740-1 795) 

THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, 
LL.D. 

FROM CHAPTER XIII (1763) 



He talked very contemptuously of Church- 
ill's^ poetry, observing, that "it had a tem- 
porary currency, only from its audacity of 
abuse, and being filled with living names, 
and that it would sink into oblivion." I ven- 
tured to hint that he was not quite a fair judge, 
as Churchill had attacked him violently.* 
Johnson: "Nay, Sir, I am a very fair judge. 
He did not attack me violently till he found 
I did not like his poetry ; and his attack on 
me shall not prevent me from continuing to 
say what I think of him, from an apprehen- 
sion that it may be ascribed to resentment. 
No, Sir, I called the fellow a blockhead at 
first, and I will call him a blockhead still. 
However, I will acknowledge that I have a 
better opinion of him now than I once had ; 
for he has shown more fertility than I ex- 
pected. To be sure, he is a tree that cannot 
produce good fruit : he only bears crabs. 
But, Sir, a tree that produces a great many 
crabs, is better than a tree which produces 
only a few." 

In this depreciation of Churchill's poetry, 
I could not agree with him. It is very true 
that the greatest part of it is upon the topics 
of the day, on which account, as it brought 
him great fame and profit at the time, it must 

' daughter of Starno and sweetheart of Fingal, 
killed long before by her father for reveahng to 
Fingal a plot against his life ' the castle of 
Starno, where drink was dispensed liberally 
'^Charles Churchill (1731-64), then in consider- 
able repute as a poet ■* He satirized Johnson as 
credulous in his poem The Ghost. 



342 



JAMES BOSWELL 



proportionably slide out of the public atten- 
tion, as other occasional objects succeed. But 
Churchill had extraordinary vigour both of 
thought and expression. His portraits of the 
players will ever be valuable to the true lovers 
of the drama; and his strong caricatures of 
several eminent men of his age, will not be 
forgotten by the curious. Let me add, that 
there are in his works many passages which are 
of a general nature; and his "Prophecy of 
Famine" is a poem of no ordinary merit. It 
is, indeed, falsely injurious to Scotland ; but 
therefore, may be allowed a greater share of 
invention. 

Bonnell Thornton had just published a bur- 
lesque "Ode on St. Cecilia's day," ^ adapted 
to the ancient British music, viz., the salt- 
box, the Jew's-harp, the marrow-bones and 
cleaver, the hum-strum, or hurdy-gurdy, etc. 
Johnson praised its humour, and seemed much 
diverted with it. He repeated the following 
passage : 

"In strains more exalted the salt-box shall join, 
And clattering and battering and clapping com- 
bine; 
With a rap and a tap, while the hollow side sounds, 
Up and down leaps the flap, and with rattling 
rebounds." 



On Tuesday, the 5th of July, I again visited 
Johnson. He told me he had looked into the 
poems of a pretty voluminous writer, Mr. 
(now Dr.) John Ogilvie, one of the Presby- 
terian ministers of Scotland, which had lately 
come out, but could find no thinking in them. 
Boswell: "Is there not imagination in them, 
Sir?" Johnson : "Why, Sir, there is in them 
what was imagination, but it is no more im- 
agination in him, than sound is sound in the 
echo. And his diction too is not his own. 
We have long ago seen white-robed innocence 
and flower-bespangled meads." 

Talking of London, he observed, "Sir, if 
you wish to have a just notion of the magni- 
tude of this city, you must not be satisfied 
with seeing its great streets and squares, but 
must survey tlie innumerable little lanes and 
courts. It is not in the showy evolutions of 
buildings, but in the multiplicity of human 
habitations which are crowded together, that 

^ It was set to music by Dr. Burney, and per- 
formed at Ranelagh in masks. 



the wonderful immensity of London consists." 
— I have often amused myself with thinking 
how different a place London is to different 
people. They, whose narroAV minds are con- 
tracted to the consideration of some one par- 
ticular pursuit, view it only through that 
medium. A politician thinks of if merely as 
the seat of government in its different depart- 
ments ; a grazier, as a vast market for cattle ; 
a mercantile man, as a place where a pro- 
digious deal of business is done upon 'Change ; 
a dramatic enthusiast, as the grand scene of 
theatrical entertainments ; a man of pleasure, 
as an assemblage of taverns, and the great 
emporium for ladies of easy virtue. But the 
intellectual man is struck with it, as compre- 
hending the whole of human life in all its 
variety, the contemplation of which is inex- 
haustible. 

On Wednesday, July 6, he was engaged to 
sup with me at my lodgings in Downing-street, 
Westminster. But on the preceding night my 
landlord having behaved very rudely to me 
and some company who were with me, I had 
resolved not to remain another night in his 
house. I was exceedingly uneasy at the awk- 
ward appearance I supposed I should make to 
Johnson and the other gentlemen whom I had 
invited, not being able to receive them at 
home, and being obliged to order supper at 
the Mitre. I went to Johnson in the morn- 
ing, and talked of it as of a serious distress. 
He laughed, and said, "Consider, Sir, how 
insignificant this wdl appear a twelvemonth 
hence." Were this consideration to be applied 
to most of the little vexatious incidents of life, 
by which our quiet is too often disturbed, it 
would prevent many painful sensations. I 
have tried it frequently with good effect. 
"There is nothing," continued he, "in this 
mighty misfortune ; nay, we shall be better at 
the Mitre." I told him that I had been at 
Sir John Fielding's office, complaining of my 
landlord, and had been informed that though 
I had taken my lodgings for a year, I might, 
upon proof of his bad behaviour, quit them 
when I pleased, without being under an obliga- 
tion to pay rent for any longer time than while 
I possessed them. The fertility of Johnson's 
mind could show itself even upon so small a 
matter as this. "Why, Sir," said he, "I sup- 
pose this must be the law, since you have been 
told so in Bow-street.^ But if your landlord 

^ police headquarters 



THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 



343 



coiild hold 3'ou to your bargain, and the 
lodgings should be yours for a year, you may 
certainly use them as you think fit. So, Sir, 
you may quarter two life-guardsmen upon 
him ; or you may send the greatest scoundrel 
you can find into your apartments ; or you 
may say that you want to make some experi- 
ments in natural philosophy, and may burn a 
large quantity of asafoetida in his house." 

I had as my guests this evening at the 
Mitre Tavern, Dr. Johnson, Dr. Goldsmith, 
Mr. Thomas Davies, Mr. Eccles, an Irish 
gentleman, for whose agreeable company I 
was obhged to Mr. Davies, and the Rev. Mr. 
John Ogilvie, who was desirous of being in 
company 'with my illustrious friend, while I, 
in my turn, was proud to have the honour of 
showing one of my countrj^men upon what 
easy terms Johnson permitted me to live with 
him. 

Goldsmith, as usual, endeavoured with too 
much eagerness to sJiine and disputed very 
warmly with Johnson against the well-kno\\Ti 
maxim of the British constitution, "the king 
can do no WTong ;" afiirming, that "what was 
morally false could not be politically true; 
and as the king might, in the exercise of his 
regal power, command and cause the doing of 
what was wrong, it certainly might be said, 
in sense and in reason, that he could do wrong." 
Johnson : " Sir, you are to consider that in our 
constitution, according to its true principles, 
the king is the head, he is supreme ; he is 
above everything, and there is no power by 
which he can be tried. Therefore, it is. Sir, 
that we hold the king can do no wrong ; that 
whatever may happen to be wrong in govern- 
ment may not be above oiu: reach by being 
ascribed to majesty. Redress is always to 
be had against oppression by pmiishing the 
immediate agents. The king, though he 
should command, cannot force a judge to 
condemn a man unjustly; therefofe it is the 
judge whom we prosecute and punish. Po- 
litical institutions are formed upon the con- 
sideration of what will most frequently tend 
to the good of the whole, although now and 
then exceptions may occur. Thus it is better 
in general that a nation should have a supreme 
legislative power, although it may at times be 
abused. And then. Sir, there is this considera- 
tion, that if the abuse be enormous, nature will 
rise up, and claiming her original rights, over- 
turn a corrupt political system." I mark this 
animated sentence with peculiar pleasure, as 



a noble instance of that truly dignified spirit 
of freedom which ever glowed in his heart, 
though he was charged with slavish tenets by 
superficial observers, because he was at all 
times indignant against that false patriotism, 
that pretended love of freedom, that unruly 
restlessness which is inconsistent with the 
stable authority of any good government. 

This generous sentiment, which he uttered 
with great fervour, struck me exceedingly, and 
stirred my blood to that pitch of fancied re- 
sistance, the possibility of which I am glad to 
keep in mind, but to which I trust I never 
shall be forced. 

" Great abilities," said he, "are not requisite 
for an historian ; for in historical composition 
all the greatest powers of the human mind are 
quiescent. He has facts ready to his hand, 
so there is no exercise of invention. Imagina- 
tion is not required in any high degree ; only 
about as much as is used in the lower kinds 
of poetry. Some penetration, accurac)^, and 
colouring, will fit a man for the task, if he can 
give the application which is necessary." 

" ' Bayle's Dictionary ' Ms a very useful work 
for those to consult who love the biographical 
part of literature, which is what I love most." 

Talking of the eminent writers in Queen 
Anne's reign, he observed, "I think Dr. Ar- 
buthnot ^ the first man among them. He was 
the most universal genius, being an excellent 
physician, a man of deep learning, and a man 
of much humour. Mr. Addison was, to be 
sure, a great man ; his learning was not pro- 
found, but his morality, his himiour, and his 
elegance of writing set him very high." 

Mr. Ogilvie was unlucky enough to choose 
for the topic of his conversation the praises of 
his native country. He began with saying, 
that there was very rich land around Edin- 
burgh. Goldsmith, who had studied physic 
there, contradicted this, very untruly, with a 
sneering laugh. Disconcerted a little by this, 
Mr. Ogilvie then took a Jievr ground, where, 
I suppose, he thought himself perfectly safe ; 
for he observed, that Scotland had a great 
many noble wild prospects. Johnson: "I 
believe. Sir, you have a great many. Norway, 

^ Dictionnaire historique et critique (1696) by 
Pierre Baj-le, a French philosopher and critic; 
especiallj' through the English translation of the 
Dictionary his sceptical views had great influence 
in England in the eighteenth century. ^ Cf. 
Pope sEp/stle to Dr. Arbuthnot, p. 2SS, above 



344 



JAMES BOSWELL 



too, has noble wild prospects; and Lapland 
is remarkable for prodigious noble wUd pros- 
pects. But, Sir, let me tell you, the noblest 
prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the 
high-road that leads him to England ! " This 
unexpected and pointed sally produced a roar 
of applause. After all, however, those who 
admire the rude grandeur of nature cannot 
deny it to Caledonia. 

On Saturday, July 9, I found Johnson sur- 
rounded with a numerous levee, but have not 
preserved any part of his conversation. On 
the 14th we had another evening by ourselves 
at the Mitre. It happened to be a very rainy 
night ; I made some commonplace observa- 
tions on the relaxation of nerves and depres- 
sion of spirits which such weather occasioned ; 
adding, however, that it was good for the 
vegetable creation. Johnson, who, as we have 
already seen, denied that the temperature of 
the air had any influence on the hirnian frame, 
answered, with a smile of ridicule, "Why, yes, 
Sir, it is good for vegetables, and for the 
animals who eat those vegetables, and for 
the animals who eat those animals." This 
observation of his, aptly enough introduced 
a good supper and I soon forgot, in John- 
son's company, the influence of a moist 
atmosphere. 

Feeling myself now quite at ease as his com- 
panion, though I had all possible reverence 
for him, I expressed a regret that I could not 
be so easy with my father, though he was not 
much older than Johnson, and certainly, how- 
ever respectable, had not more learning and 
greater abilities to depress me. I asked him 
the reason of this. Johnson: "Why, Sir, I 
am a man of the world. I live in the world, 
and I take, in some degree, the colour of 
the world as it moves along. Your father is a 
judge in a remote part of the island, and all 
his notions are taken from the old world. 
Besides, Sir, there must always be a struggle 
between a father and son, while one aims at 
power and the other at independence." I 
said, I was afraid my father would force me 
to be a lawyer. Johnson : "Sir, you need not 
be afraid of his forcing you to be a laborious 
practising lawyer; that is not in his power. 
For, as the proverb says, ' One man may lead 
a horse to the water, but twenty cannot make 
him drink.' He may be displeased that you 
are not what he wishes you to be ; but that 
displeasure will not go far. If he insists only 
on your having as much law as is necessary 



for a man of property, and then endeavours 
to get you into parliament, he is quite in the 
right." 

He enlarged very convincingly upon the 
excellence of rhyme over blank verse in Eng- 
lish poetry. I mentioned to him that Dr. 
Adam Smith,^ in his lectures upon composition, 
when I studied under him in the College of 
Glasgow, had maintained the same opinion 
strenuously, and I repeated some of his argu- 
ments. Johnson: "Sir, I was once in com- 
pany with Smith, and we did not take to each 
other ; but had I known that he loved rhyme 
as much as you teU me he does, I should have 
hugged him." 

Talking of those who denied thfe truth of 
Christianity, he said, "It is always easy to be 
on the negative side. If a man were now to 
deny that there is salt upon the table, you 
could not reduce him to an absurdity. Come, 
let us try this a little further. I deny that 
Canada is taken, and I can support my denial 
by pretty good argum^ents. The French are a 
much more numerous people than we ; and it 
is not likely that they would allow us to take 
it. 'But the ministry have assured us, in all 
the formality of the Gazette, that it is taken.' 
— Very true. But the ministry have put us 
to an enormous expense by the war in America, 
and it is their interest to persuade us that we 
have got something for our money. — 'But 
the fact is confirmed by thousands of men 
who were at the taking of it.' — Ay, but these 
men have still more interest in deceiving us. 
They don't want that you should think the 
French have beat them, but that they have 
beat the French. Now suppose you should 
go over and find that it really is taken, that 
would only satisfy yourself; for when you 
come home we will not believe you. We wfll 
say, you have been bribed. — Yet, Sir, not- 
withstanding all these plausible objections, we 
have no doubt that Canada is really ours. 
Such is the weight of common testimony. 
How much stronger are the evidences of the 
Christian religion?" 

"Idleness is a disease which must be com- 
bated; but I would not advise a rigid ad- 
herence to a particular plan of study. I my- 
self have never persisted in any plan for two 
days together. A man ought to read just as 
inclination leads him ; for what he reads as a 
task will do him little good. A young man 

^ author of the famous Wealth of Nations 



THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 



345 



should read five hours in a day, and so may 
acquire a great deal of knowledge." 

To a man of vigorous intellect and ardent 
curiosity like his own, reading without a regu- 
lar plan may be beneficial ; though even such 
a man must submit to it, if he wovdd attain a 
full understanding of any of the sciences. 

To such a degree of unrestrained frankness 
had he now accustomed me that in the course 
of this evening I talked of the numerous re- 
flections which had been thrown out against 
him, on account of his having accepted a pen- 
sion from his present Majesty. "Why, Sir," 
said he, with a hearty laugh, "it is a mighty 
foolish noise that they make. I have accepted 
of a pension as a reward which has been 
thought due to my literary merit ; and now 
that I have this pension, I am the same man 
in every respect that I have ever been ; I re- 
tain the same principles. It is true, that I 
cannot now curse (smiling) the house of Han- 
over ; nor woiild it be decent for me to drink 
King James's health in the wine that King 
George gives me money to pay for. But, Sir, 
I think that the pleasure of cursing the house 
of Hanover, and drinking King James's 
health, are amply overbalanced by three 
hundred poimds a year." 



It will be observed, that when giving me 
advice as to my travels. Dr. Johnson did not 
dwell upon cities, and palaces, and pictures, 
and shows, and Arcadian scenes. He was of 
Lord Essex's opinion, who advises his kins- 
man, Roger Earl of Rutland, "rather to go a 
hundred miles to speak with one wise man, 
then five miles to see a fair town." ^ 

I described to him an impudent fellow from 
Scotland, who affected to be a savage, and 
railed at all established systems. Johnson : 
"There is nothing surprising in this, Sir. He 
wants to make himself conspicuous. He 
would tumble in a hog-sty, as long as you 
looked at him and called to him to come out. 
But let him alone, never mind him, and he'll 
soon give it over." 

I added that the same person maintained 
that there was no distinction between virtue 
and vice. Johnson: "Why, Sir, if the fellow 
does not think as he speaks, he is lying ; and 
I see not what honour he can propose to him- 
self from having the character of a liar. But 

^ in a letter dated Jan. 4, 1596 



if he does really think that there is no distinc- 
tion between virtue and vice, why. Sir, when 
he leaves our houses let us count our spoons." 
Sir David Dalrymple, now one of the judges 
of Scotland by the title of Lord Hailes, had 
contributed much to increase my high opinion 
of Johnson, on account of his writings, long 
before I attained to a personal acquaintance 
with him ; I, in return, had informed Johnson 
of Sir David's eminent character for learn- 
ing and religion; and Johnson was so much 
pleased, that at one of our evening meetings 
he gave him for his toast. I at this time kept 
up a very frequent correspondence with Sir 
David; and I read to Dr? Johnson to-night 
the following passage from the letter which I 
had last received from him : 

It gives me pleasure to think that you have 
obtained the friendship of Mr. Samuel Johnson. 
He is one of the best moral writers which England 
has produced. At the same time, I envy you the 
free and undisguised converse with such a man. 
May I beg you to present my best respects to 
him, and to assure him of the veneration which I 
entertain for the author of the 'Rambler' and of 
'Rasselas'? Let me recommend this last work 
to you; with the 'Rambler' j'ou certainly are 
acquainted. In 'Rasselas' you wiU see a tender- 
hearted operator, who probes the wound only to 
heal it. Swift, on the contrary, mangles human 
nature. He cuts and slashes as if he took pleasure 
in the operation, hke the tyrant who said, Ita fcri 
tit se sentiat emori} 

Johnson seemed to be much gratified by 
this just and weU-turned compliment. 

He recommended to me to keep a journal 
of my life, fuU and unreserved. He said it 
would be a very good exercise, and would 
yield me great satisfaction when the particu- 
lars were faded from my remembrance. I 
was uncommonly fortunate in having had a 
previous coincidence of opinion with him upon 
this subject, for I had kept such a journal for 
some time ; and it was no small pleasure to 
me to have this to teU him, and to receive his 
approbation. He counselled me to keep it 
private, and said I might surely have a friend 
who would burn it in case of my death. 
From this habit I have been enabled to give 
the world so many anecdotes, which would 
otherwise have been lost to posterity. I men- 
tioned that I was afraid I put into my journal 

^ Strike in such a way that he may feel the 
pangs of death 



346 



JAMES BOSWELL 



too many little incidents. Johnson: "There 
is nothing, Sir, too little for so little a creature 
as man. It is by studying little things that 
we attain the great art of having as Httle 
misery and as much happiness as possible." 

Next morning Mr. Dempster happened to 
caU on me, and was so much struck even with 
the imperfect account which I gave him of 
Dr. Johnson's conversation, that to his honour 
be it recorded, when I complained that drink- 
ing port and. sitting up late Avith him affected 
my nerves for some time after, he said, "One 
had better be palsied at eighteen than not 
keep company with such a man." 

On Tuesday, Jnily i8, I found tall Sir 
Thomas Robinson sitting with Johnson. Sir 
Thomas said, that the King of Prussia valued 
himself upon three things ; upon being a hero, 
a musician, and an author. Johnson : 
"Pretty well, Sir, for one man. As to his 
being an author, I have not looked at his 
poetry ; but his prose is poor stuff. He w^rites 
just as you may suppose Voltaire's footboy to 
do, who has been his amanuensis. He has 
such parts as the valet might have, and abQ,ut 
as much of the colouring of the style as might 
be got by transcribing his works." When I 
was at Ferney, I repeated this to Voltaire, in 
order to reconcile him somewhat to Johnson, 
whom he, in affecting the English mode of 
expression, had previously characterised as 
" a superstitious dog" ; but after hearing such 
a criticism on Frederick the Great, with whom 
he was then on bad terms, he exclaimed, "An 
honest fellow !" 

But I think the criticism much too severe ; 
for the "Memoirs of the House of Branden- 
burgh" are written as well as many works of 
that kind. His poetry, for the style of which 
he himself makes a frank apology, "jargonnani 
un FraiiQois barbare,"'^ though fraught with 
pernicious ravings of infidehty, has in many 
places, great animation, and in some a pa- 
thetic tenderness. 

Upon this contemptuous animadversion on 
the King of Prussia, I observed to Johnson, 
"It would seem then. Sir, that much less parts 
are necessary to make a kmg, than to make 
an author: for the Kmg of Prussia is con- 
fessedly the greatest king now in Europe, yet 
you think he makes a very poor figure as an 
author." 

Mr. Levett this day showed me Dr. John- 

^ using a barbarous kind of French 



son's library, which was contained in two 
garrets over his chambers, where Lintot, son 
of the celebrated bookseller of that name, had 
formerly his warehouse. I found a number 
of good books, but very dusty and in great 
confusion. The floor was strewed with manu- 
script leaves, in Johnson's own handwriting, 
which I beheld with a degree of veneration, 
supposing they perhaps might contain por- 
tions of the "Rambler," or of "Rasselas." I 
observed an apparatus for chemical experi- 
ments, of which Johnson Vs^as all his Hfe very 
fond. The place seemed to be very favour- 
able for retirement and meditation. Johnson 
told me, that he went up thither without men- 
tioning it to'his servant when he wanted to 
study, secure from interrruption ; for he would 
not allow his servant to say he was not at 
home when he really was. "A servant's strict 
regard for truth," said he, "must be weakened 
by such a practice. A philosopher may know 
that it is merely a form of denial; but few 
servants are such nice distinguishers. If I 
accustom a servant to tell a lie for me, have I 
not reason to apprehend that he will tell many 
lies for himself?" I am, however, satisfied 
that every servant, of any degree *of inteUi- 
gence, understands saying his master is not at 
home, not at all as the affirmation of a fact, 
but as customary words, intimating that his 
master wishes not to be seen; so that there 
can be no bad eft'ect from it. 

Mr. Temple, now vicar of St. Gluvias, 
Cornwall, who had been my intimate friend 
for many years, had at this time chambers in 
Farrar's-buildings, at the bottom of Inner 
Temple-lane, which he kindly lent me upon 
my quitting my lodgings, he being to return 
to Trinity HaU, Cambridge. I found them 
particularly convenient for me, as they were 
so near Dr. Johnson's. 

On Wednesday, July 20, Dr. Johnson, Mr. 
Dempster, and my uncle. Dr. Boswell, who 
happened to be now in London, supped with 
me at these chambers. Johnson: "Pity is 
not natural to man. Children are always 
cruel. Savages are always cruel. Pity is 
acquired and improved by the cultivation of 
reason. We may have uneasy sensations from 
seeing a creature in distress, without pity : for 
we have not pity unless we wish to relieve 
them. When I am on my way to dine with 
a friend, and finding it late, have bid the coach- 
man make haste, if I happen to attend when 
he whips his horses, I may feel unpleasantly 



THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 



347 



that the animals are put to pain, but I do not 
wish him to desist. No, Sir, I wish him to 
drive on." 

Mr. Alexander Donaldson, bookseller of 
Edinburgh, had for some time opened a shop 
in London, and sold his cheap editions of the 
most popular English books, in defiance of 
the supposed common-law right of Literary 
Property. Johnson, though he concurred in 
the opinion which was afterwards sanctioned 
by a judgment of the House of Lords, that 
there was no such right, was at this time very- 
angry that the booksellers of London, for 
whom he uniformly professed much regard, 
should suffer from an invasion of what they 
had ever considered to be secure ; and he 
was loud and violent against Mr. Donaldson. 
"He is a fellow who takes advantage of the 
law to injure his brethren ; for, notwithstand- 
ing that the statute secures only fourteen 
years of exclusive right, it has always been 
understood by the trade, that he who buys 
the copyright of a book from the author ob- 
tains a perpetual property ; and upon that 
belief, numberless bargains are made to trans- 
fer that property after the expiration of the 
statutory term. Now, Donaldson, I say, 
takes advantage here, of people who have 
really an equitable title from usage; and if 
we consider how few of the books, of which 
they buy the property, succeed so weU as to 
bring profit, we should be of opinion that the 
term of fourteen years is too short ; it should 
be sixty years." Dempster: "Donaldson, 
Sir, is anxious for the encouragement of litera- 
ture. He reduces the price of books, so that 
poor students may buy them." Johnson 
(laughing): "Well, Sir, allowing that to be 
his motive, he is no better than Robin Hood, 
who robbed the rich in order to give to the 
poor." 

It is remarkable, that when the great ques- 
tion concerning Literary Property came to be 
ultimately tried before the supreme tribunal 
of this country, in consequence of the very 
spirited exertions of Mr. Donaldson, Dr. 
Johnson was zealous against a perpetuity ; 
but he thought that the term of the exclusive 
right of authors should be considerably en- 
larged. He was then for granting a hundred 
years. 

The conversation now turned upon Mr. 
David Hume's^ style. Johnson : "Why, Sir, 



his style is not English ; the structure of his 
sentences is French. Now the French struc- 
ture and the Enghsh structure may, in the 
nature of things, be equally good. But if you 
allow that the EngUsh language is established, 
he is wrong. My name might originally have 
been Nicholson, as well as Johnson ; but were 
you to call me Nicholson now, you would call 
me very absurdly." 

Rousseau's treatise on the inequality of 
mankind was at this time a fashionable topic. 
It gave rise to an observation by Mr. Demp- 
ster, that the advantages of fortime and rank 
were nothing to a wise man, who ought to 
value only merit. Johnson : "If man were a 
savage, living in the woods by himself, this 
might be true ; but in civilised society we aU 
depend upon each other and our happiness is 
very much owing to the good opinion of man- 
kind. Now, Sir, in civiUsed society, external 
advantages make us more respected. A man 
with a good coat upon his back meets with a 
better reception than he who has a bad one. 
Sir, you may analyse this and say what is there 
in it ? But that will avail you nothing, for it 
is part of a general system. Pound St. Paul's 
church into atoms, and consider any single 
atom ; it is, to be sure, good for nothing ; but 
put aU these atoms together and j^ou have St. 
Paul's church. So it is with hujnan felicity, 
which is made up of many ingredients, each 
of which may be shown to be very insignifi- 
cant. In civilised society personal merit wUl 
not serve you so much as money will. Sir, 
you may make the experiment. Go into the 
street and give one man a lecture .on morality 
and another a shilling, and see which will 
respect you most. If you wish only to support 
nature, Sir William Petty ^ fixes your allow- 
ance at three pounds a year ; but as times are 
much altered, let us call it six pounds. This 
sum wiU fill your belly, shelter you from the 
weather, and even get you a strong lasting 
coat, supposmg it to be made of good bull's 
hide. Now, Sir, all beyond this is artificial, 
and is desired in order to obtain a greater 
degree of respect from our fellow-creatures. 
And, Sir, if six hundred pounds a year procure 
a man more consequence, and, of course, more 
happiness than six pounds a year, the same 
proportion will hold as to six thousand, and 
so on, as far as opulence can be carried. Per- 
haps he who has a large fortune may not be 



^ the Scottish philosopher and historian 



^ an English writer on economics (1623-S7) 



348 



JAMES BOSWELL 



so happy as he who has a small one ; but that 
must proceed from other causes than from his 
having the large fortune : for, caeteris paribus^ 
he who is rich in a civilised society must be 
happier than he who is poor ; as riches, if 
properly used, (and it is a man's own fault if 
they are not,) must be productive of the 
highest advantages. Money, to be sure, of 
itself is of no use : for its only use is to part 
with it. Rousseau, and all those who deal in 
paradoxes, are led away by a childish desire 
of novelty. When I was a boy I used always 
to choose the wrong side of a debate, because 
■ most ingenious things, that is to say, most new 
things, could be said upon it. Sir, there is 
nothing for which you may not muster up 
more plausible arguments than those which 
are urged against wealth and other external 
advantages. Why, now, there is stealing : 
why should it be thought a crime? When 
we consider by what unjust methods property 
has been often acquired, and that what was 
unjustly got it must be unjust to keep, where 
is the harm in one man's taking the property 
of another from him? Besides, Sir, when we 
consider the bad use that many people make 
of their property, and how much better use 
the thief may make of it, it may be defended 
as a very allowable practice. Yet, Sir, the ex- 
perience of mankind has discovered stealing 
to be so very bad a thing that they make no 
scruple to hang a man for it. When I was 
running about this town a very poor fellow, I 
was a great arguer for the advantages of 
poverty; but I was, at the same time, very 
sorry to be poor. Sir, all the arguments 
which are brought to represent poverty as no 
evil, show it to be evidently a great evil. You 
never find people labouring to convince you 
that you may live very happily upon a plenti- 
ful fortime. — So you hear people talking how 
miserable a king must be, and yet they all 
wish to be in his place." 

It was suggested that kings must be .un- 
happy, because they are deprived of the 
greatest of all satisfactions, easy and unre- 
served society. Johnson: "This is an ill- 
founded notion. Being a king does not ex- 
clude a man from such society. Great kings 
have always been social. The King of Prus- 
sia,_ the only great king at present, is very 
social. Charles the Second, the last king of 
England who was a man of parts, was social ; 

^ other things being equal 



and our Henrys and Edwards were all 
social." 

Mr. Dempster having endeavoured to main- 
tain that intrinsic merit ought to make the 
only distinction among mankind, Johnson : 
"Why, Sir, mankind have found that this 
cannot be. How shall we determine the pro- 
portion of intrinsic merit? Were that to be 
the only distinction amongst mankind, we 
should soon quarrel about the degrees of it. 
Were all distinctions abolished, the strongest 
would not long acquiesce, but would endeav- 
our to obtain a superiority by their bodily 
strength. But, Sir, as subordination is very 
necessary for society, and contentions for su- 
periority very dangerous, mankmd, that is to 
say, all civilised nations, have settled it upon 
a plain invariable principle. A man is born 
to hereditary rank ; or his being appointed 
to certain offices gives him a certain rank. 
Subordination tends greatly to hiunan happi- 
ness. Were we all upon an equality, we should 
have no other enjoyment than mere animal 
pleasure." 

I said, I considered distinction or rank to 
be of so much importance in civilised society, 
that if I were asked on the same day to dine 
with the first duke in England, and with the 
first man in Britain for genius, I should hesi- 
tate which to prefer. Johnson : "To be sure, 
Sir, if you were to dine only once, and it were 
never to be known where you dined, you 
would choose rather to dine with the first 
man for genius ; but to gain most respect, 
you should dine with the first duke in Eng- 
land. For nine people in ten that you meet 
with, would have a higher opinion of you for 
having dined with a duke ; and the great 
genius himself would receive you better, be- 
cause you had been with the great duke." 

He took care to guard himself against any 
possible suspicion that his settled principles 
of reverence for rank and respect for wealth 
were at all owing to mean or interested mo- 
tives ; for he asserted his own mdependence 
as a literary man. "No man," said he, "who 
ever lived by literature, has lived more inde- 
pendently than I have done." He said he 
had taken longer time than he needed to have 
done in composing his Dictionary.^ He re- 
ceived our compliments upon that great work 
with complacency, and told us that the Acad- 

^ published in 1755; it soon became and long 
remained the standard for English 



THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON 



emy della Crusca^ could scarcely believe that 
it was done by one man. 



At night, Mr. Johnson and I supped in a 
private room at the Turk's Head coffee-house, 
in the Strand. " I encourage this house," said 
he, "for the mistress of it is a good civil 
woman, and has not much business." 

"Sir, I love the acquaintance of young 
people; because, in the first place, I don't 
like to think myseK growing old. In the next 
place, young acquaintances must last longest, 
if they do last ; and then. Sir, young men have 
more virtue than old men ; they have more 
generous sentiments in every respect. I love 
the young dogs of this age; they have more 
wit and humour and knowledge of life than 
we had; but then the dogs are not so good 
scholars. Sir, in my early years I read very 
hard. It is a sad reflection, but a true one, 
that I knew almost as much at eighteen as I 
do now. ]My judgment, to be sure, was not 
so good, but I had all the facts. I remember 
very well when I v/as at Oxford, an old gentle- 
man said to me, 'Young man, ply your book 
diligently now, and axquire a stock of knowl- 
edge ; for when years come upon you, you 
will find that poring upon books will be but 
an irksome task.' " 

This account of his reading, given by him- 
self in plain words, sufficiently confirms what 
I have already advanced upon the disputed 
question as to his application. It reconciles 
any seeming inconsistency in his way of talk- 
ing upon it at dift'erent times ; and shows that 
idleness and reading hard were with him rela- 
tive terms, the import of which, as used by 
him, must be gathered from a comparison with 
what scholars of different degrees of ardour 
and assiduity have been known to do. And 
let it be remembered that he was now talking 
spontaneously, and expressing his genuine sen- 
timents ; whereas at other times he might be 
induced from his spirit of contradiction, or 
more properly from his love of argumentative 
contest, to speak lightly of his own application 
to study. It is pleasing to consider that the 
old gentleman's gloomy prophecy as to the 
irksomeness of books to men of an advanced 
age, which is too often fulfilled, was so far 
from being verified in Johnson, that his ardour 

^ a Florentine literary society which published 
a large dictionary of the Italian language 



349 

for literature never failed, and his last writings 
had more ease and vivacity than any of his 
earlier productions. 

He mentioned to me now, for the first time, 
that he had been distressed by melancholy, 
and for that reason had been obliged to fly 
from study and meditation, to the dissipating 
variety of Hfe. Against melancholy he recom- 
mended constant occupation of mind, a great 
deal of exercise, moderation in eating and 
drinking, and especially to shun drinking at 
night. He said melancholy people were apt 
to fly to intemperance for relief, but that it 
sunk them much deeper in misery. He ob- 
served, that labouring men who work hard, 
and live sparingly, are seldom or never 
troubled with low spirits. 



He said Dr. Joseph Warton was a very agree- 
able man, and his "Essay on the Genius and 
Writings of Pope" a very pleasing book. I 
wondered that he delayed so long to give us 
the continuation of it. Johnson : "Why, Sir, 
I suppose he finds himself a Httle disappointed 
in not having been able to persuade the world 
to be of his opinion as to Pope." 

We have now been favoured with the con- 
cluding volume, in which, to use a parlia- 
mentary expression, he has explained, so 
as not to appear quite so adverse to the 
opinion of the world, concerning Pope, as 
was at first thought ; and we must all agree 
that his work is a most valuable accession to 
English literature. 

A writer of deserved eminence being men- 
tioned, Johnson said, "Why, Sir, he is a man 
of good parts, but being originally poor, he has 
got a love of mean company and low jocu- 
larity ; a very bad thing, Sir. To laugh is 
good, and to talk is good. But you ought no 
more to think it enough if you laugh, than 
you are to think it enough if you talk. You 
may laugh in as many ways as you talk ; and 
surely every way of talking that is practised 
cannot be esteemed." 

I spoke of Sir James IMacdonald as a young 
man of most distinguished merit, who miited 
the highest reputation at Eton and Oxford, 
with the patriarchal spirit of a great Highland 
chieftain. I mentioned that Sir James had 
said to me, that he had never seen J\Ir. John- 
son, but he had a great respect for him, though 
at the same time it was mixed with some 
degree of terror. Johnson; "Sir, if he were 



35° 



JAMES BOSWELL 



to be acquainted with me, it might lessen 
both." 



He maintained that a boy at school was 
the happiest of human beings. I supported a 
different opinion, from which I have never yet 
varied, that a man is happier ; and I enlarged 
upon the anxiety and sufferings which are 
endured at school. Johnson: "Ah, Sir, a 
boy's being flogged is not so severe as a man's 
having the hiss of the world against him. 
Men have a solicitude about fame; and the 
greater share they have of it, the more afraid 
they are of losing it." I silently asked my- 
self, "Is it possible that the great Samuel 
Johnson really entertains any such apprehen- 
sion, and is not confident that his exalted 
fame is established upon a foundation never 
to be shaken?" 

He this evening drank a bumper to Sir 
David Dalrymple, "as a man of worth, a 
scholar, and a wit." "I have," said he, 
"never heard of him, except from you; but 
let him know my opinion of him : for as he 
does not show himself much in the world, he 
should have the praise of the few who hear of 
him." 

On Tuesday, July 26, I found Mr. Johnson 
alone. It was a very wet day, and I again 
complained of the disagreeable effects of such 
weather. Johnson : "Sir, this is all imagina- 
tion, which physicians encourage; for man 
lives in air as a fish lives in water ; so that if 
the atmosphere press heavy from above, there 
is an equal resistance from below. To be sure, 
bad weather is hard upon people who are 
obliged to be abroad ; and men cannot labour 
so well in the open air in bad weather as in 
good; but. Sir, a smith, or a tailor, whose 
work is within doors, wUl surely do as much 
in rainy weather as in fair. Some very deli- 
cate frames, indeed, may be affected by wet 
weather; but not common constitutions." 

We talked of the education of children ; and 
I asked him what he thought was best to teach 
them first. Johnson : " Sir, it is no matter 
what you teach them first, any more than 
what leg you shall put into your breeches first. 
Sir, you may stand disputing which is best to 
put in first, but in the meantime your breech 
is bare. Sir, while you are considering which 
of two things you should teach your child 
first, another boy has learned them both." 

On Thursday, July 28, we again supped in 



private at the Turk's Head coffee-house. 
Johnson : " Swift has a higher reputation than 
he deserves. His excellence is strong sense; 
for his humour, though very well, is not re- 
markably good. I doubt whether the 'Tale 
of a Tub' be his ; for he never owned it, and 
it is much above his usual manner." 

"Thomson,^ I think, had as much of the poet 
about him as most writers. Everything ap- 
peared to him through the medium of his 
favourite pursuit. He could not have viewed 
those two candles burning but with a poetical 
eye." 

"Has not a, great deal of wit, Sir?" 

Johnson : "I do not think so, Sir. He is, in- 
deed, continually attempting wit, but he fails. 
And I have no more pleasure in hearing a 
man attempting wit and failing, than in see- 
ing a man trying to leap over a ditch and 
tumbling into it." 

He laughed heartily when I mentioned to 
him a saying of his concerning Mr. Thomas 
Sheridan,^ which Foote^ took a wicked pleas- 
ure to circulate. "Why, Sir, Sherry is dull, 
naturally dull ; but it must have taken him a 
great deal of pains to become what we now 
see him. Such an excess of stupidity, Sir, is 
not in Nature." — "So," said he, "I allowed 
him all his own merit." 

He now added, "Sheridan cannot bear me. 
I bring his declamation to a point. I ask him 
a plain question, '"^AHiat do you mean to 
teach?' Besides, Sir, what influence can Mr. 
Sheridan have upon the language of this great 
country, by his narrow exertions? Sir, it is 
burning a farthing candle at Dover, to show 
hght at Calais." 



Next day, Sunday, July 3, 1 told him I had 
been that morning at a meeting of the people 
called Quakers, where I had heard a woman 
preach. Johnson : " Sir, a woman's preach- 
ing is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. 
It is not done weU ; but you are surprised to 
find it done at all." 

On Tuesday, August 2, (the day of my de- 
parture from London having been fixed for 

^ author of The Seaso?is, etc. ' an Irishman 
who acted, taught elocution, and published a 
pronouncing dictionary of the English language 
— father of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the 
brilliant orator and dramatist ^ Samuel Foote 
(1720-77), a popular actor and dramatist 



JUNIUS 



351 



the 5th,) Dr. Johnson did me the honour to 
pass a part of the morning with me at my 
chambers. He said, "that he always felt an 
inclination to do nothing." I observed, that 
it was strange to think that the most indolent 
man in Britain had written the most laborious 
work, "The English Dictionary." 



JUNIUS 

LETTER XV 

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF GRAFTON 

July 8, 1769. 
My Lord, 

If nature had given you an understanding 
quaHfied to keep pace with the wishes and 
principles of your heart, she would have made 
you, perhaps, the most formidable minister 
that ever was employed under a Hmited mon- 
arch to accomplish the ruin of a free people. 
When neither the feelings of shame, the re- 
proaches of conscience, nor the dread of punish- 
ment, form any bar to the designs of a minis- 
ter, the people would have too much reason to 
lament their condition, if they did not iind 
some resource in the weakness of his under- 
standing. We owe it to the boiuity of Provi- 
dence, that the completest depravity of the 
heart is sometimes strangely united with a 
confusion of the mind which counteracts the 
most favourite principles, and makes the same 
man treacherous without art, and a hypocrite 
without deceiving. The measures, for in- 
stance, in which your Grace's activity has 
been chiefly exerted, as they were adopted 
wdthout skill, should have been conducted 
with more than common dexterity. But 
truly, my Lord, the execution has been as 
gross as the design. By one decisive step you 
have defeated aU the arts of writing. You 
have fairly confounded the intrigues of opposi- 
tion, and silenced the clamours of faction. A 
dark, ambiguous system might require and 
furnish the materials of ingenious illustration ; 
and, in doubtful measures, the virulent exag- 
geration of party must be employed to rouse 
and engage the passions of the people. You 
have now brought the merits of your adminis- 
tration to an issue on which every Englishman 
of the narrowest capacity may determine for 
himself. It is not an alarm to the passions, 



but a calm appeal to the judgment of the 
people upon their own most essential interests. 
A more experienced minister would not have 
hazarded a direct invasion of the first principles 
of the constitution before he had made some 
progress in subduing the spirit of the people. 
With such a cause as yours, my Lord, it is 
not sufficient that you have the court at your 
devotion unless you can find means to corrupt 
or intimidate the jury. The collective body 
of the people form that jury, and from their 
decision there is but one appeal. 

Whether you have talents to support you at 
a crisis of such difiiculty and danger should 
long since have been considered. Judging 
truly of your disposition, you have, perhaps, 
mistaken the extent of your capacity. Good 
faith and folly have so long been received for 
synonymous terms, that the reverse of the 
proposition has grown into credit, and every 
villain fancies himself a man of abilities. It is 
the apprehension of your friends, my Lord, 
that you have drawn some hasty conclusion 
of this sort, and that a partial reliance upon 
your moral character has betrayed you beyond 
the depth of your understanding. You have 
now carried things too far to retreat. You 
have plainly declared to the people what they 
are to expect from the continuance of your 
administration. It is time for your Grace to 
consider what you also may expect in return 
from their spirit and their resentment. 

Since the accession of our most gracious 
sovereign to the throne we have seen a system 
of government which may well be called a 
reign of experiments. Parties of aU denomi- 
nations have been employed and dismissed. 
The advice of the ablest men in this country 
has been repeatedly railed for and rejected; 
and when the royal displeasure has been sig- 
nified to a minister, the marks of it have 
usually been proportioned to his abilities and 
integrity. The spirit of the favourite^ had 
some apparent influence upon every adminis- 
tration : and ever>' set of ministers preserved 
an appearance of duration, as long as they 
submitted to that influence. But there were 
certain services to be performed for the 
favourite's security, or to gratify his resent- 
ments, which your predecessors in office had 
the wisdom or the virtue not to undertake. 
The moment this refractory spirit was dis- 
covered their disgrace was determined. Lord 

1 the Earl of Bute 



352 



JUNIUS 



Chatham, Mr. Grenville, and Lord Rocking- 
ham have successively had the honour to be 
dismissed for preferring their duty as servants 
of the pubUc to those comphances which were 
expected from their station. A submissive 
administration was at last gradually collected 
from the deserters of all parties, interests, and 
connections; and nothing remained but to 
find a leader for these gallant well-disciplined 
troops. Stand forth, my Lord, for thou art 
the man. Lord Bute found no resource of 
dependence or security in the proud, imposing 
superiority of Lord Chatham's abilities, the 
shrewd, inflexible judgment of Mr. Grenville, 
nor in the mild but determined integrity of 
Lord Rockingham. His views and situation 
required a creature void of all these properties ; 
and he was forced to go through every divi- 
sion, resolution, composition, and refinement 
of political chemistry, before he happily 
arrived at the caput moriuum ^ of vitriol in your 
Grace. Flat and insipid in your retired state, 
but, brought into action, you become vitriol 
again. Such are the extremes of alternate in- 
dolence or fury which have governed your 
whole administration. Your circumstances 
with regard to the people soon becoming 
desperate, like other honest servants you de- 
termined to involve the best of masters in the 
same difiiculties with yourself. We owe it 
to your Grace's well-directed labours, that 
your sovereign has been persuaded to doubt 
of the affections of his subjects, and the people 
to suspect the virtues of their sovereign, at a 
time when both were unquestionable. You 
have degraded the royal dignity into a base, 
dishonourable competition with Mr. Wilkes,^ 
nor had you abilities to carry even this last 
contemptible triumph over a private man, 
without the grossest violation of the funda- 
mental laws of the constitution and rights of 
the people. But these are rights, my Lord, 
which you can no more annihilate than you 
can the soil to which they are annexed. 
The question no longer turns upon points of 
national honour and security abroad, or on 
the degrees of expedience and propriety of 
measures at home. It was not inconsistent 
that you should abandon the cause of hberty 
in another country ,3 which you had persecuted 

^ literally, dead head ; here, lifeless residue 
^ John Wilkes, a worthless profligate, but a vigor- 
ous champion of popular rights and constitu- 
tional methods ^ America 



in your own ; and in the common arts of 
domestic corruption, we miss no part of Sir 
Robert Walpole's system except his abilities. 
In this humble imitative line you might long 
have proceeded, safe and contemptible. You 
might, probably, never have risen to the dig- 
nity of being hated, and even have been de- 
spised with moderation. But it seems you 
meant to be distinguished, and, to a mind like 
yours, there was no other road to fame but by 
the destruction of a noble fabric, which you 
thought had been too long the admiration of 
mankind. The use you have made of the 
military force introduced an alarming change 
in the mode of executing the laws. The arbi- 
trary appointment of Mr. Luttrell ^ invades the 
foundation of the laws themselves, as it mani- 
festly transfers the right of legislation from 
those whom the people have chosen to those 
whom they have rejected. With a succession 
of such appointments we may soon see a House 
of Commons collected, in the choice of which 
the other towns and counties of England will 
have as little share as the devoted county of 
Middlesex. 

Yet, I trust, your Grace will find that the 
people of this country are neither to be intimi- 
dated by violent measures, nor deceived by 
refinements. When they see Mr. Luttrell 
seated in the House of Commons by mere dint 
of power, and in direct opposition to the choice 
of a whole county, they will not listen to those 
subtleties by which every arbitrary exertion 
of authority is explained into the law and priv- 
ilege of parliament. It requires no persua- 
sion of argument, but simply the evidence of 
the senses, to convince them that to transfer 
the right of election from the collective to the 
representative body of the people contradicts 
aU those ideas of a House of Commons which 
they have received from their forefathers, and 
which they have already, though vainly per- 
haps, delivered to their children. The prin- 
ciples on which this violent measure has been 
defended, have added scorn to injury, and 
forced us to feel that we are not only op- 
pressed but insulted. 

With what force, my Lord, with what pro- 
tection, are you prepared to meet the united 
detestation of the people of England? The 
city of London has given a generous example 

^ Appointed by the House of Commons to the 
seat to which Wilkes had been elected by the 
County of Middlesex. 



THOMAS CHATTERTON 



353 



to the kingdom in what manner a king of this 
country ought to be addressed ; and I fancy, 
my Lord, it is not yet in your courage to stand 
between your sovereign and the addresses of 
his subjects. The injuries you have done this 
country are such as demand not only redress 
but vengeance. In vain shall you look for 
protection to that venal vote which you have 
already paid for — - another must be pur- 
chased ; and to save a minister, the House of 
Commons must declare themselves not only 
independent of their constituents, but the 
determined enemies of the constitution. Con- 
sider, my Lord, whether this be an extremity 
to which their fears will permit them to ad- 
vance, or, if their protection should fail you, 
how far you are authorised to rely upon the 
sincerity of those smiles which a pious court 
lavishes without reluctance upon a libertine 
by profession. It is not, indeed, the least of 
the thousand contradictions which attend you, 
that a man, marked to the world by the 
grossest violation of all ceremony and deco- 
rum, should be the first servant of a court in 
which prayers are morality and kneeling is 
religion. Trust not too far to appearances 
by which your predecessors have been de- 
ceived, though they have not been injured. 
Even the best of princes may at last discover 
that this is a contention in which everything 
may be lost but nothing can be gained ; and, 
as you became minister by accident, were 
adopted without choice, trusted without con- 
fidence, and continued without favour, be 
assured that, whenever an occasion presses, 
you will be discarded without even the forms 
of regret. You will then have reason to be 
thankful if you are permitted to retire to that 
seat of learning^ which, in contemplation of 
the system of your life, the comparative purity 
of your manners with those of their high 
steward, and a thousand other recommending 
circumstances, has chosen you to encourage 
the growing virtue of their youth, and to pre- 
side over their education. Whenever the 
spirit of distributing prebends and bishop- 
rics shall have departed from you, you will 
find that learned seminary perfectly recovered 
from the delirium of an installation, and, what 
in truth it ought to be, once more a peaceful 
scene of slumber and thoughtless meditation. 
The venerable tutors of the university will no 

' Grafton was elected Chancellor of the Uni- 
versity of Cambridge in 1768. 



longer distress your modesty by proposing 
you for a pattern to their pupils. The learned 
dulness of declamation will be silent ; and 
even the venal muse, though happiest in 
fiction, will forget your virtues. Yet, for the 
benefit of the succeeding age, I could wish that 
your retreat might be deferred until your 
morals shall happily be ripened to that ma- 
turity of corruption at which the worst ex- 
amples cease to be contagious. 

Junius. 



THOMAS CHATTERTON 

( 1752-1770) 

BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; 

OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES 

BAWDIN 

The feathered songster chaunticleer 

Han wounde ^ hys bugle home, 
And tolde the earlie villager 

The commynge of the morne : 4 

Kynge Edwarde ^ sawe the ruddie streakes 

Of lyghte eclypse the greie ; 
And herde the raven's crokynge throte 

Proclayme the fated daie. 8 

"Thou'rt ryghte," quod he, "for, by the 
Godde 

That syttes enthron'd on hyghe ! 
Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine, 

To-daie shall surelie die." 12 

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale 
Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite ; 

" Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie 
Hee leaves thys mortall state." 16 

Sir Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, 
With harte brj^mm-fulle of woe ; 

Hee journey'd to the castle-gate. 

And to Syr Charles dydd goe. 20 

Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine. 

And eke hys lovynge wyfe, 
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore. 

For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. 24 

^ has sounded ^ Edward IV 



354 



THOMAS CHATTERTON 



"O goode Syr Charles ! " sayd Canterlone, 
"Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." 

"Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr 
Charles, 
"Whatte says the tray tor kynge?" 28 

"I greeve to telle ; before yonne Sonne 

Does fromme the welkinn flye, 
Hee hathe uppon hys honour sworne, 

Thatt thou shalt surelie die." 32 

"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; 

"Of thatte I'm not affearde; 
Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? 

Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd : 36 

"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, 

I'de sooner die to-daie 
Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, 

Though I shoulde lyve for aie." 40 

Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out, 

To telle the maior^ straite 
To gett all thynges ynne redyness 

For goode Syr Charleses fate. 44 

Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the k3aige. 

And felle down onne hys knee ; 
"I'm come," quod hee, "imto your grace 

To move your clemency e." 48 

Thenne quod the kynge, "Youre tale speke 
out, 

You have been much oure friende ; 
Whatever youre request may bee, 

Wee wyile to ytte attende." 52 

"My nobile leige ! alle my request 

Ys for a nobUe knyghte. 
Who, though may hap hee has donne 
wronge, 

Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte : 56 

"He has a spouse and children twaine, 

AUe rewyn'd are for aie ; 
Yff that you are resolved to lett 

Charles Bawdin die to-dai." 60 

" Speke not of such a traytour vile," 

The kynge ynn furie sayde ; 
"Before the evening starre doth sheene,^ 

Bawdin shall loose hys hedde : 64 

^ William Canjoige, mayor of Bristol in 1461 
^ shine 



"Justice does loudlie for hym calle. 
And hee shalie have hys meede : 

Speke, maister Ganynge ! Whatte thynge else 
Att present doe you neede?" 68 

"My nobile leige !" goode Canynge sayde, 

"Leave justice to our Godde, 
And laye the yronne rule asyde ; 

Be thyne the olyve rodde. 72 

"Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines. 

The best were synners grete ; 
Christ's vicarr only knowes ne ^ synne, 

Ynne alle thys mortall state. 76 

"Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, 

'Twylle faste ^ thye crowne fuUe sure ; 
From race to race thye familie 
" Alle sov'reigns shall endure : 80 

"But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou 

Beginne thy infante reigne. 
Thy crowne upponne thy chUdrennes brows 

Wylle never long remayne." 84 

" Canynge, awaie ! thys traytour vile 
Has scorn'd my power and mee ; 

Howe canst thou then for such a manne 
Entreate my clemencye?" 88 

" My nobile leige ! the trulie brave 

Wylle val'rous actions prize ; 
Respect a brave and nobile mynde, 

Although ynne enemies." 92 

" Canynge, awaie ! By Godde ynne Heav'n 

That dydd mee beinge gyve, 
I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade 

Whilst thys Syr Charles do the lyve. 96 

"By Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n, 

Thys sunne shall be hys laste," 
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare. 

And from the presence paste. 100 

With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, 

Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe, 
And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole. 

And teares beganne to flowe. 104 

"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; 

"Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne ; 
Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate 

Of aU wee mortall menne. 108 

^ no ^ fasten 



THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE 



355 



"Saye why, my friende, thie honest soul 

Runns overr att thyne eye ; 
Is ylte for my most welcome doome 

Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?" 112 

Quod godUe Canynge, "I doe weepe, 

Thatt thou soe soone must dye, 
And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe ; 

'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye." 116 

"Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye 
From godlie fountaines sprynge ; 

Dethe I despise, and alle the power 

Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. 1 20 

"Whan through the tyrant's welcom means 

I shall resigne my lyfe, 
The Godde I serve wyHe soone provyde 

For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe. 1 24 

"Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, 

Thys was appomted mee ; 
Shall mortaU manne repyne or grudge 

What Godde ordeynes to bee? 128 

"Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, 

Whan thousands dy'd arounde ; 
Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode 

Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde: 132 

"Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry dart, 

That cutte the airie waie, 
Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, 

And close myne eyes for aie? 136 

"And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, 
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde ? 

Ne ! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere, 
Bee aUe the manne display'd. 140 

"Ah! goddelyke Henrie ! ^ Godde forefende,^ 
And guarde thee and thye Sonne, 

Yff 'tis hys wylle ; but yfT 'tis nott. 

Why thenne hys \vylle bee donne. 144 

"My honest friende, my faulte has beene 
To serve Godde and mye prynce ; 

And thatt I no tyme-server am. 

My dethe wylle soone convynce. 148 

"Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, 

Of parents of grete note ; 
]\Iy fadrc dydd a nobile armes 

Emblazon onne hys cote : 152 

^ Henry VI, imprisoned by Edward IV - defend 



"I make ne^ doubte butt hee ys gone 
Where soone I hope to goe ; 

Where wee for ever shall bee blest, 
From oute the reech of woe. 



156 



"Hee taughte mee justice and the laws 

Wyth pitie to unite ; 
And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe 

The wronge cause fromm the ryghte : 160 

"Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande 

To feede the hungrie poore, 
Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie 

The hungrie fromme my doore : 164 



"And none can saye butt aUe mye lyfe 

I have hys wordyes kept ; 
And summ'd the actyonns of the daie 

Eche nyghte before I slept. 



"I have a spouse, goe aske of her 
Yff Idefyl'dherbedde? 

I have a kynge, and none can laie 
Black treason onne my hedde. 



168 



172 



"Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, 

Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne ; 
Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd 

To leave thys worlde of payne ? 176 

"Ne, hapless Henrie ! I rejoyce, 

I shall ne ^ see thye dethe ; 
Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause 

Doe I resign my brethe. 180 

"Oh, fickle people ! rewyn'd ^ londe ! 

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe ; 
Whyle Richard's sonnes •• exalt themselves, 

Thye brookes wythe bloude T^ylle flowe. 184 

"Sale, were ye tyr'd of godhe peace, 

And godlie Henrie's reigne, 
Thatt you dyd choppe '" your easie dales 

For those of bloude and peyne? 188 

"Whatte though I onne a sledde be drawne. 

And mangled by a hynde, 
I doe defye the traytor's pow'r, 

Hee can ne harm my mynd ; 192 

^ no - not ^ ruined * Edward IV and Richard, 
Duke of Gloucester (later Richard III) ^ex- 
change 



356 



THOMAS CHATTERTON 



"Whatte though, uphoisted onne a pole, 
Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre, 

And ne ryche monument of brasse 

Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; 196 

" Yett ynne the holie booke above, 

Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, 
There wythe the sarvants of the Lord 

Mye name shall lyve for aie. 200 

"Thenne welcome dethe ! for lyfe eterne 

I leave thys mortall lyfe : 
Farewell vayne world, and alle that's deare, 

Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe ! 204 

"Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes, 

As e'er the moneth of Maie ; 
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, 

Wyth my dere wyfe to stale." 208 

Quod Canynge, " 'Tys a goodlie thynge 

To bee prepar'd to die ; 
And from thys world of peyne and grefe 

To Godde ynne heav'n to fiie." 212 

And nowe the belle began to toUe, 

And clary onnes to sound ; 
Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete 

A prauncyng onne the grounde : 216 

And just before the officers 

His lovynge wyfe came ynne, 
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe, 

Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. 220 

" Sweet Florence ! nowe I praie forbere, 

Ynn quiet lett mee die ; 
Praie Godde thatt ev'ry Christain soule 

Maye looke onne dethe as I. 224 

"Sweet Florence ! why these brinie teers? 

Theye washe my soule awaie. 
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, 

Wyth thee, sweete dame, to stale. 228 

" 'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe 

Untoe the lande of blysse ; 
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, 

Receive thys holie kysse." 232 

Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie,^ 
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke, 

"Ah, crude Edwarde ! bloudie kynge ! 
Mye herte ys welle nyghe broke : 236 

^ speech 



"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou 
goe, 

Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe ? 
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thy necke, 

Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe." 240 

And nowe the officers came ynne 

To brynge Syr Charles awaie, 
Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, 

And thus to her dydd sale : 244 

"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe ; 

Truste thou ynne Godde above. 
And teache thy sonnes to feare the Lorde, 

And ynne theyre hertes hym love : 248 

"Teache them to runne the nobile race 

Thatt I theyre fader runne ; 
Florence ! shou'd dethe thee take — adieu ! 

Yee officers leade onne." 252 

Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde, 

And dydd her tresses tere ; 
"Oh stale, mye husbande, lorde, and lyfe!" 

Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare. 256 

'Tyll tyredd ^ oute wythe ravynge loude, 

Shee fellen onne the flore ; 
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte. 

And march'd fromm oute the dore. 260 

Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, 
Wythe lookes full brave and swete ; 

Lookes thatt enshone ^ ne more concern 
Thanne anie ynne the strete. 264 

Before hym went the council-menne, 

Ynne scarlett robes and golde, 
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne, 

Muche glorious to beholde : 268 

The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next 

Appeared to the syghte, 
Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes. 

Of godlie monkysh plyghte : ^ 272 

Ynne diffraunt partes a godlie psaume 
Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaimt ; 

Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles 
came. 
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.'* 276 

^ tired " showed ^ style ■* a mythical instru- 
ment (due to Chatterton's misunderstanding of 
an ancient word) 



THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE 



357 



Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came ; 

Echone the bowe dydd bende, 
From rescue of Kynge Henries friends 

Syr Charles forr to defend. 280 

Bolde as a lyon came Syr Charles, 
Drawne onne a cloth-layde sledde, 

Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, 
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde : 284 

Behynde hym five-and-twenty moe 

Of archers stronge and stoute, 
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande. 

Marched ynne goodlie route ; 288 

Seincte Jameses Freers marched next, 

Echone hys parte dydd chaunt ; 
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came. 

Who tun'd the strunge bataunt : 292 

Thenne came the maior and eldermenne, 

Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't ; 
And theyre attendynge menne echone, 

Lyke easterne princes trickt : 296 

And after them, a mvdtitude 

Of citizens dj^dd thronge ; 
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes, 

As hee dydd passe alonge. 300 

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse, 
Syr Charles dydd turne and sale, 

"O thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne, 
Washe mye soule clean thys dale ! " 304 

Att the grete mynster ^A'yndowe sat 

The kynge ynne myckle ^ state. 
To see Charles Bawdin goe alonge 

To hys most welcom fate. 308 

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe, 
Thatt Edwarde hee myghte heare, 

The brave Syr Charles hee dydd standeuppe, 
And thus hys wordes declare : 312 

"Thou seest me, Edwarde ! tray tour vile ! 

Expos 'd to infamie ; 
Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne ! 

I'm greaterr no we thanne thee. 316 

"Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude, 

Thou wearest nowe a crowne ; 
And hast appoynted mee to die, 

By power nott thyne owne. 320 

^ great 



"Thou thynkest I shall die to-daie ; 

I have beene dede 'till nowe. 
And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne 

For aie uponne my browe : 324 

"Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares, 

Shalt rule th^'s fickle lande. 
To lett them knowe ho we wyde the rule 

'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande : 328 

"Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave ! 

Shall falle onne thye owne hedde" — 
Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge 

Departed thenne the sledde. 332 

Kynge Edwarde's soule rush'd to hys face. 

Flee turn'd hys hedde awaie, 
And to hys broder Gloucester 

Hee thus dydd speke and sale : 336 

"To hym that soe much dreaded dethe 

Ne ghastlie terrors brynge, 
Beholde the manne ! hee spake the truthe, 

Hee's greater thanne a kynge !" 340 

"Soe let hym die !" Duke Richarde sayde ; 

"And maye echone oure foes 
Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe 

And feede the carryon crowes." 344 

And nowe the horses gentlie drewe 
Syr Charles uppe the hyghe hylle ; 

The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne, 
His pretious bloude to spylle. 



348 



Syrr Charles dydd uppe the scaffold goe. 

As uppe a gilded carre 
Of victory e, bye val'rous chiefs 

Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre: 352 



And to the people hee dj^d sale, 
"Beholde you see mee dye. 

For servynge loyally mye kynge, 
Mye kynge most ryghtfullie. 



356 



"As longe as Edwarde rules thys land, 

Ne quiet you wj'lle knowe : 
Your sonnes and husbandes shaUe bee 
slayne 

And brookes \\'ythe bloude shall flowe. 360 

"You leave youre goode and lawfuUe kynge, 

Whenne ynne adversitye ; 
Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, 

And for the true cause dye." 364 



358 



GEORGE CRABBE 



Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees, 

A prayer to Godde dyd make, 
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe 

Hys partynge soule to take. 368 

Thenne, kneel)aige downe, hee layd hys hedde 

Most seemhe onne the blocke ; 
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once 

The able heddes-manne stroke : 372 

And oute the blonde beganne to flowe, 
And rounde the scafEolde twyne ; 

And teares, enow to washe 't awaie, 

Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne. 376 

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre 

Ynnto foure partes cutte ; 
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, 

Uponne a pole was putte. 380 

One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle, 

One onne the mynster-tower. 
And one from off the castle-gate 

The crowen ^ dydd devoure ; 384 

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, 

A dreery spectacle ; 
Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, 

Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile. 388 

Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate : 
Godde prosper longe oure kynge. 

And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, 
Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge ! 392 

THE ACCOUNTE OF W. CANYNGES 
FEAST 2 

Thorowe the halle the belle han sounde ; 
Byelecoyle doe the grave beseeme ; 
The ealdermenne doe sytte arounde, 
Ande snoffelle oppe the cheorte steeme 
Lyche asses wylde ynne desarte waste 5 

Swotelye the morneynge ayre doe taste. 

Syche coyne thie ate ; the minstrels plaie. 
The dynne of angelles doe theie keepe ; 
Heie stylle ; the guestes ha ne to saie, 
Butte nodde yer thankes ande falle aslape 10 
Thos echone dale bee I to deene, 
Gyf Rowley, Iscamm, or Tyb Gorges be ne 
seene. 

^ crows 2 For a translation of this absurd jargon 
see the Notes. 



GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832) 

From TALES 
TALE X — THE LOVER'S JOURNEY 

On either side 
Is level fen, a prospect wild and wide. 
With dikes on either hand by ocean's self 

supplied : 
Far on the right the distant sea is seen, 
And salt the springs that feed the marsh 

between. 
Beneath an ancient bridge the straitened flood 
Rolls through its sloping banks of slimy mud ; 
Near it a sunken boat resists the tide, 1 1 1 
That frets and hurries to th' opposing side ; 
The rushes sharp, that on the borders grow. 
Bend their brown flow'rets to the stream 

below, 
Impure in all its course, in all its progress 

slow : 
Here a grave Flora scarcely deigns to bloom, 
Nor wears a rosy blush, nor sheds perfume : 
The few dull fl-owers that o'er the place are 

spread 
Partake the nature of their fenny bed ; 
Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, 120 
Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume : 
Here the dvv^arf sallows creep, the septfoU 

harsh, 
And the soft slimy mallow of the marsh ; 
Low on the ear the distant billows sound, 
And just in view appears their stony bound ; 
No hedge nor tree conceals the glowing sun ; 
Birds, save a wat'ry tribe, the district shun, 
Nor chirp among the reeds where bitter waters 

run. 



Again, the country was enclosed, a wide 
And sandy road has banks on either side ; 
Where, lo ! a hollow on the left appeared. 
And there a gipsy tribe their tent had reared ; 
'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun. 
And they had now their early meal begun. 
When two brown boys just left their grassy 

seat. 
The early traveller with their prayers to greet : 
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand, 
He saw their sister on her duty stand ; 150 
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, 
Prepared the force of early powers to try; 
Sudden a look of languor he descries, 
And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes ; 



WILLIAM BLAKE 



359 



Trained but yet savage, in her speaking face 
He marked the features of her vagrant race ; 
When a hght laugh and roguish leer ex- 
pressed 
The vice implanted in her youthful breast : 
Forth from the tent her elder brother came, 
Who seemed offended, yet forbore to blame 
The young designer, but could only trace i6i 
The looks of pity in the traveller's face : 
Within, the father, who from fences nigh 
Had brought the fuel for the lire's supply, 
Watched now the feeble blaze, and stood de- 
jected by. 
On ragged rug, just borrowed from the bed, 
And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, 
In dirty patchwork negligently dressed. 
Reclined the wife, an infant at her breast ; 
In her wild face some touch of grace re- 
mained. 
Of vigour palsied and of beauty stained ; 171 
Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate 
Were wrathful turned, and seemed her wants 

to state. 
Cursing his tardy aid — her mother there 
With gipsy-state engrossed the only chair ; 
Solemn and dull her look ; with such she 

stands. 
And reads the milk-maid's fortime in her 

hands, 
Tracing the lines of life ; assumed through 

years. 
Each feature now the steady falsehood wears ; 
With hard and savage eye she views the 

food. 
And grudging pinches their intruding brood; 
Last in the group, the worn-out grandsire 

sits 
Neglected, lost, and living but by fits : 183 
Useless, despised, his worthless labours done, 
And half protected by the vicious son, 
Who half supports him; he with heaA^ 

glance 
\'iews the young ruffians who aromid him 

dance ; 
And, by the sadness in his face, appears 
To trace the progress of their future years : 
Through what strange course of misery, vice, 
deceit, 190 

Must wildly wander each unpractised cheat! 
What shame and grief, what punishment and 

pain, 
Sport of fierce passions, must each child sus- 
tain — 
Ere they like him approach their latter end. 
Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend! 



WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) 
From SONGS OF INNOCENCE 

INTRODUCTION 

Piping down the valleys wild, • 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child. 

And he laughing said to me : 4 

"Pipe a song about a Lamb!" 
So I piped with merry cheer. 

"Piper, pipe that song again;" 

So I piped : he wept to hear. 8 

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer!" 
So I sung the same again. 

While he wept with joy to hear. 1 2 

"Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book, that all may read." 

So he vanished from my sight ; 

And I plucked a hollow reed, 16 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stained the water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs 

Every child may joy to hear. 20 

From SONGS OF EXPERIENCE 
THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE 

"Love seeketh not itself to please. 

Nor for itself hath any care, 
But for another gives its ease. 

And builds a heaven in hell's despair." 4 



So sung a little clod of clay, 
Trodden with the cattle's feet, 

But a pebble of the brook 

Warbled out these metres meet 



"Love seeketh only Self to please. 
To bind another to its delight, 

Joys in another's loss of ease. 

And builds a hell in heaven's despite." 



360 



WILLIAM BLAKE 



THE SICK ROSE 

O Rose, thou art sick! 

The invisible worm, 
That flies in the night, 

In the howling storm, 

Has found out thy bed 

Of crimson joy. 
And his dark secret love 

Does thy life destroy. 



THE TIGER 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 

In the forests of the night. 

What immortal hand or eye 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 4 

In what distant deeps or skies 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes ? 

On what wings dare he aspire? 

What the hand dare seize the fire ? 8 

And what shoulder and what art 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
And, when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand and what dread feet ? 1 2 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 16 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears. 
Did He smile His work to see ? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 20 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 

In the forests of the night. 

What immortal hand or eye 

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 24 

A POISON TREE 

I was angry with my friend : 

I told my wrath, my wrath did end. 

I was angry with my foe : 

I told it not, my wrath did grow. 4 

And I watered it in fears 

Night and morning with my tears, 

And I sunned it with smiles 

And with soft deceitful wUes. 8 



And it grew both day and night, 
Till it bore an apple bright. 
And my foe beheld it shine. 
And he knew that it was mine, — 

And into my garden stole 

When the night had veiled the pole ; 

In the morning, glad, I see 

My foe outstretched beneath the tree 



16 



From IDEAS OF GOOD AND EVIL 
AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE 

To see the world in a grain of sand. 

And a heaven in a wild flower ; 
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand. 

And eternity in an hour. 4 

TWO KINDS OF RICHES 

Since all the riches of all this world 

May be gifts from the devU and earthly 
kings, 

I should suspect that I worshipped the devil 
If I thanked God for worldly things. 4 

The countless gold of a merry heart. 
The rubies and pearls of a loving eye. 

The idle man never can bring to the mart, 
Nor the cunning hoard up in his treasury. 8 

LOVE'S SECRET 

Never seek to tell thy love. 
Love that never told shall be ; 

For the gentle wind does move 

Silently, invisibly. 4 

I told my love, I told my love, 

I told her all my heart, 
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. 

Ah! she did depart! 8' 

Soon after she was gone from me, 

A traveller came by. 
Silently, invisibly : 

He took her with a sigh. 12 



MINOR SCOTTISH POETS 



361 



MINOR SCOTTISH POETS 

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE 
HOUSE 1 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 

And are ye sure he's weel? 
Is this a time to think of wark? 

Ye jauds," fling by your wheel. 4 

Is this the time to think of wark, 

When Cohn's at the door? 
Gi'e me my cloak ! I'll to the quay 

And see him come ashore. 8 

For there's nae luck about the house, 

There's nae luck ava ; ^ 
There's little pleasure in the house, 

WTien our gudeman's awa'. 1 2 

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside ; 

Put on the muckle pot ; 
Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, 

And Jock his Svmday coat : 16 

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,^ 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 
It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 

For he's been long awa'. 20 

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,^ 

Been fed this month and mair ; 
Mak' haste and thraw '^ their necks about, 

That Colin weel may fare ; 24 

And mak' the table neat and clean, 

Gar " nka thing look braw ; 
It's a' for love of my gudeman, 

For he's been long awa'. 28 

O gi'e me down my bigonet,* 

]\Iy bishop satin gown. 
For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin's come to town. 
]\Iy Sunday's shoon they maun ^ gae on, 

jM}' hose o' pearl blue ; 
'Tis a' to please mj^ ain gudeman, 

For he's baith leal and true. 36 

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech. 

His breath's like caller " air! 
His very foot has music in't, 

As he comes up the stair. 40 

^ TJiis poem is often wrongly ascribed to Jean 
Adams. ^ jades ^ at all * sloes ^ cross-beam 
^ twist ^ make * bonnet ^ must ^^ fresh 



32 



And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak? 
I'm downright dizzy with the thought. 

In troth, I'm like to greet. ^ 

The cavdd blasts o' the winter wind, 

That thrilled through my heart, 
They're a' blawn by ; I ha'e him safe. 

Till death we'll never part : 
But what puts parting in my head ? 

It may be far awa' ; 
The present moment is our ain, 

The neist - we never saw. 



44 



52 



Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, 

I ha'e nae more to crave ; 
Could I but live to mak' him blest, 

I'm blest above the lave : ^ 56 

And will I see his face again? 

And will I hear him speak? 
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — 

In troth, I'm like to greet. 60 

— William Julius Mickle (1735-1788) 

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST 

I've heard them lilting,^ at our ewe-milking, 
Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day; 
But now they are moaning, on ilka green 

loaning ; ^ 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede ^ away. 

At bughts '^ in the morning nae blythe lads are 

scorning ; * 
The lasses are lanely, and dowie,^ and wae ; 
Nae daffing,^" nae gabbmg, but sighing and 

sabbing, 
Ilk ane lifts her leglin," and hies her away. 8 

In hairst,^- at the shearing, nae youths now are 

jeering, 
The bandsters ^' are lyart," and runkled and 

grey; 
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleech- 

ing ^^ — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 1 2 

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies ^^ are 

roaming 
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle ^' to play ; 

^ weep ^ next ^ rest ■* singing ^ meadow path 
^ vanished "^ sheep-pens * bantering * dull ^° jest- 
ing ^^ pail '- harvest ^^ binders ^'^ old ^^ coa.xing 
^'^ young men '" bugbear 



362 



ROBERT BURNS 



But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 16 

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to 

the Border! 
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; 
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the 

foremost, 
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay. 20 

We'll hear nae more lUting at our ewe-milking. 
Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; 
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning. 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 24 
— ^Jane Elliot (1727-1805) 

From CALLER WATER 

Whan father Adie lirst pat ^ spade in 
The bonny yeard of antient Eden 
His amry ^ had nae liquor laid in, 

To fire his mou',^ 
Nor did he thole ^ his wife's upbraidin' 

For being fou.^ ' 6 

A caller ^ burn o' siller sheen 

Ran cannily out o'er the green, 

And whan our gutcher's ^ drouth had been 

To bide right sair,* 
He loutit ^ down and drank bedeen ^^ 

A dainty skair.^^ 12 

His bairns a' before the flood 

Had langer tack ^- o' flesh and blood, 

And on mair pithy shanks they stood 

Than Noah's line, 
Wha still hae been a feckless brood 

Wi' drinking wine. 18 

The fuddlin' Bardies now-a-days 
Rin maukin-mad ^^ in Bacchus' praise, 
And limp and stoiter thro' their lays 

Anacreontic, 
While each his sea of wine displays 

As big's the Pontic. 24 

My muse will no gang far frae hame, 
Or scour a' airths " to hound for fame ; 
In troth, the jillet ^^ ye might blame 
For thinking on't, 

^ put ^ cupboard ^ mouth •* endure ^ full 
® fresh '' grandfather's ® right sore to endure 
^ bent ^^ quickly ^^ share ^ lease ^'^ mad as a hare 
^* regions ^^ huzzy 



Whan eithly ^ she can find the theme 

Of aquajont} 30 

This is the name that doctors use 
Their patients' noodles to confuse ; 
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse, 

They labour still. 
In kittle ^ words to gar ^ you roose * 

Their want o' skill. 36 

But we'll hae nae sick ^ clitter-clatter, 
And briefly to expound the matter, 
It shall be ca'd good Caller Water, 

Than whilk,'' I trow. 
Few drogs in doctors' shops are better 

For me or you. 42 

— Robert Fergusson (1750-1774) 



ROBERT BURNS (i 759-1 796) 

SONG, — GREEN GROW THE RASHES 

Chorus. — Green grow the rashes, O ! 
Green grow the rashes, O ! 

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
Are spent amang the lasses, O. 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 5 

In every hour that passes, O : 
What signifies the life o' man. 

An 'twe;te na for the lasses, ? 

The war'ly ^ race may riches chase, 

An' riches still may fly them, O ; 10 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast. 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0. 

But gie me a cannie ' hour at e'en. 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men, 15 

May a' gae tapsalteerie,^" O. 

For you sae douce,^^ ye sneer at this ; 

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O : 
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 20 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her prentice han' she try'd on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 

^ easily ^ aqua fonds = water from the spring 
^ ticklish ^ make ^ praise ® such *" which * worldly 
^ quiet ^" topsy-turvy ^^ solemn 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 



363 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 

O Prince ! O Chief of many throned pow'rs ! 
That led th' embattled seraphim to war. — 

— Milton. 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee, — 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie ! 
Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges ^ about the brunstane cootie ^ 5 

To scaud ^ poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 10 

To skelp ^ an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 

Far ken'd ^ an' noted is thy name ; 

An' tho' yon lowin heugh's ^ thy hame,^ 15 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag ^ nor lame, 

Nor blate ^ nor scaur.^° 

WTiyles," rangin like a roarin lion, 

For prey a' holes an' corners tryin ; 20 

Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, 

Tirlin' 12 the kirks ; " 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 



I've heard my rev'rend grannie say, 
In lanely ^^ glens ye like to stray ; 
Or whare auld ruin'd castles gray 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch ^^ croon. 



25 



30 



^^^len twilight did my grannie summon 
To say her pray'rs, douce ^^ honest woman 
Aft yont ^' the dike she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees ^^ comin, 35 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae ^^ dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin ™ light, 

^splashes ^brimstone tub ■''scald ^slap 
^ known * flaming ravine ' home * sluggish ^ shy 
^° timid " sometimes '- unroofing '•'* churches 



Wi' you mysel I gat a fright 
Ayont 1 the lough ; ^ 

Ye like a rash-buss ^ stood in sight 
Wi' waving sough. 



40 



LlIIllU SUlllCUilllCS UUlUlj 

^•^ lonely ^^ unearthly ^'' grave 
^* elders ^* one ^ slanting 



^' often beyond 



The cudgel in my nieve ^ did shake, 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch,^ stoor ^ "Quaick, 
quaick," 45 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake. 

On whistlin wings. 

Let warlocks ^ grim an' wither'd hags 

Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags 50 

They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk-yards ^ renew their leagues, 

Owre howket ^ dead. 

Thence, countra wives wi' toil an' pain 55 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn ^^ in vain ; 
For oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witchin skill ; 
An' dawtet," twal-pint hawkie's ^^ gaen 

As yell's ^^ the bill." 60 



When thov/es ^^ dissolve the snawy hoord/® 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord, 
Then water-kelpies ^^ haunt the foord 

By your direction, 70 

An' nighted trav'lers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

And aft ^* your moss-traversing spunkies ^' 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : 
The bleezing,2° curst, mischievous monkeys 75 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When masons' mystic word and grip 

In storms an' tempests raise you up, 80 

Some cock or cat your rage maun stop. 

Or, strange to tell. 
The youngest brither -^ ye wad whip 

Aff ^ straught to hell ! 

^ beyond ^ lake ^ rush-bush * fist * unearthly 
^ harsh ^ wizards * church-yards ^ dug up '" churn 
" petted ^- twelve-pint cow ^' dry as " bull 
^^ thaws ^® snowy hoard ^"water-spirits '* often 
^^ will-o'-the-wisps 2° blazing ^^ brother ^ oflf 



3^4 



ROBERT BURNS 



Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, 85 

When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
And all the soul of love they shar'd. 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,^ 

In shady bow'r ; 90 

Then you, ye auld sneck-drawin ^ dog ! 

Ye cam to Paradise incog. 

And play'd on man a cursed brogue,^ 

(Black be your fa' !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog,* 95 

Maist ^ ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,^ 
Wi' reeket ^ duds and reestet gizz,* 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

Mang better folk, 100 

An' sklented ^ on the man of Uz ^° 

Your spitefu' joke? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 

An' brak him out o' house and hal', 

While scabs and blotches did him gall, 105 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd " his ill-tongued, wicked scaul/^ 

Was warst ava ? ^^ 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 

Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, no 

Sin' that day Michael " did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding ^^ a Lallan ^^ tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots," I ken ye're thinkin, 115 

A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. 

Some luckless hour will send him linkin,^^ 

To your black pit ; 
But faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin," 

An' cheat you yet. 120 

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins ^° might — I dinna ken 

Still hae a stake : ^^ 
I'm wae ^^ to think upo' yon den, 125 

Ev'n for your sake ! 

^ sward ^ latch-lifting ^ tricli 
® flurry ^ smoked ^ singed face 
loosed ■^^ scold ^^ worst of 

Par. Zo5/, VI, 326 "baffle 

^^ tripping ^^ darting ^° possibly 
chance in the game ^ sad 



trick ^ shock ^ almost 
® flurry ^ smoked ^ singed face ^ directed ^° Job 
" loosed ^2 scold " worst of all " cf. Milton, 
Par. Zo5/, VI, 326 "baffle ^6 Lowland 1^ old Hoofs 
^^ tripping ^^ darting ^° possibly ^^ still have a 
chance in the game ^ saH 



From LINES TO JOHN LAPRAIK 

I am nae Poet, in a sense. 

But just a Rhymer like by chance, 50 

An' hae to learning nae pretence ; 

Yet what the matter? 
Whene'er my Muse does on me" glance, 

I jingle at her. 



Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, "How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang?" 
But, by your leave, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 



55 



60 



What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ? 
If honest nature made you fools. 

What sairs ^ your grammars ? 
Ye'd better taen^ up spades and shools, 65 

Or knappin-hammers.^ 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes * 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks ^ and come out asses. 

Plain truth to speak ; 70 

An' syne ^ they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me ae '' spark o' Nature's fire, 

That's a' the learnin I desire ; 

Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub ^ an' mire 75 

At pleugh or cart. 
My Muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 



TO A MOUSE 

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785 

Wee, sleekit,' cowrin, tim'rous beastie. 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty 

Wi' bickerin ^^ brattle ! " 
I Avad be laith ^^ to rin an' chase thee 5 

Wi' murd'rin pattle ! ^^ 



^ serves ^ have taken ^ stone brea' 
® then ^ one ^ puddle ^ sleek 
Moth i3p.^ddle 



^ steers ., 

^^ scamper ^^ loth 



stone breakers "* fools 
die ^ sleek ^° hurrying 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 



365 



I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 10 

At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 

An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles/ but thou may thieve: 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen ^ icker ^ in a thrave * 15 

'S a sma' request ; 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,^ 

An' never miss 't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 

Its sUly wa's ^ the win's are strewin ! 20 

An' naething, now, to big '' a new ane, 

O' foggage ^ green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin 

Baith snell ' an' keen ! 



25 



Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here beneath the blast 

Thou thought to dwell. 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 30 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble, 

But ^° house or hald, 
To thole ^^ the winter's sleety dribble 35 

An' cranreuch ^^ cauld ! 



But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane ^^ 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes 0' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gley," 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain 

For promis'd joy. 



40 



45 



Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my ee ^^ 

On prospects drear ! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear ! 

^ sometimes ^ occasional ^ ear of grain ■* twenty- 
four sheaves ^ rest ® its poor walls ' build ** rank 
grass " piercing ^^ without " endure ^ hoar-frost 
^^ lone ^'^ amiss ^^ eye 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile. 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

— Gray. 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : 
My dearest meed a friend's esteem and 

praise. 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 5 
The lowly train in fife's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless 
ways; 
What Aiken in a cottage woidd have been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth umknown, far happier 
there, I ween ! 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh,^ 

The short'ning winter day is near a close ; 

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh. 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their 

repose ; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour 
goes, — _ 
This night his weekly mofi. is at an end, — 
CoUects his spades, his mattocks and his 
hoes, 16 

Hoping the morn ^ in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 20 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher ^ 
through 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin * noise 

an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, ^ blinkin bonilie. 
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's 
smile, 24 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' his weary kiaugh '^ and care beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his 
toil. 



^ sound ^ morrow 
^ fire-place '^ anxiety 



' stagger ^ fluttering 



366 



ROBERT BURNS 



Belyve/ the elder bairns come drappin in, 
At service out amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca ^ the pleugh, some herd, some 
tentie ^ rin 30 

A cannie errand to a neibor toun : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman- 
grown. 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her ee, 
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw * 
new gown, 
Or deposite her sair-won ^ penny-fee, 35 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 
An' each for other's weelfare kindly 
spiers : ^ 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 
fleet ; 
Each tells the uncos ''' that he sees or 
hears. 40 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful 
years ; 
Anticipation forward points the view ; 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her 
sheers. 
Gars ^ auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
new; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 

Their master's an' their mistress's com- 
mand 
The yoimkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent ^ 
hand. 
An' ne'er tho' out o' sight, to jauk or 
play : 49 

"An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway. 
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright ! " 54 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door. 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 

Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her 

hame. 

The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek ; 

Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires 

his name, 61 

^ presently ^ drive ^ careful * fine ^ hard-won 
* asks ' odds and ends * makes ^ diligent 



While Jenny hafflins ^ is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild 
worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,^ 

A strappin youth ; he takes the mother's 

eye; 

Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen ; ^ 66 

The father cracks ^ of horses, pleughs, and 

kye.^ 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows 
wi' joy. 
But, blate ® and laithfu',^ scarce can weel 
behave ; 
The mother wi' a woman's wiles can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 
grave, 71 

Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected 
like the lave.^ 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this declare — 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas- 
ure spare, 77 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, lo-vdng, modest pair, 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 

ev'ning gale." 81 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and 
truth ! 
That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting 
youth ? 85 

Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child. 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- 
traction wild?, 90 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board. 
The halesome parritch,^ chief of Scotia's 
food ; * 

^ partly ^ within ^ not ill taken ■• talks ^ cows 
^ shy ^ bashful ^ rest ® porridge 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 



367 



The sowpe ^ their only hawkie - does afford, 
That yont ^ the hallan * snugly chows her 

cud. 
The dame brings forth, in complimental 
mood, 95 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd ^ kebbuck 

An' aft ' he's prest, an' aft he ca's it 
guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond ^ auld, sin' lint ^ was 
i' the bell. 99 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They romid the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace 
The big ha'-bible,^" ance his father's 

pride ; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
His lyart " haif'ets ^ wearing thin and 
bare; 105 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
ghde. 
He wales " a portion with judicious care ; 
And, "Let us worship God," he says with 
solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple 

guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 

aim: no 

Perhaps Dujidce's wild-warbKng measui'es 

rise. 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the 

name, 
Or noble Elgin beets ^^ the heaven-ward 
flame, 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. 

Compar'd with these, Italian trills are 

tame; 115 

The tickl'd ear no heart -felt raptures raise ; 

Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-hke father reads the sacred 
page, — 
How Abram was the friend of God on 
high; 
Or ]\Ipses bade eternal warfare wage 120 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

^ milk - cow ^ beyond ^ partition * well-sa>ed 
^ strong cheese " often * twelve-month ^ since flax 
^° hall Bible " gray ^ locks ^^ chooses ^'^ incites, 
kindles 



Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging 

ire; 

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and waihng cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 125 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the 
theme, — 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed; 
How He, who bore in heav'n the second 
name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay His 
head: 130 

How His first followers and servants 
sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land ; 
Plow he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
And heard great Bab 'Ion's doom pronounced 
by Heav'n's command. 135 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal 
King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband 
prays : 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant 
wing," 
That thus they all shall meet in future 

days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 140 
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 

Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
In such society, yet still more dear, 
While circlmg Time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor ReUgion's 
pride _ 14S 

In all the pomp of method and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 
Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart ! 
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will 
desert. 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 

But haply in some cottage far apart 151 
May hear, well pleased, the language of the 
soul, 
And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
way ; 
The yomTgling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 



368 



ROBERT BURNS 



And proffer up to Heav'n the warm re- 
quest, 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the 
best, i6o 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 

springs. 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 

abroad : 

Princes and lords are but the breath of 

kings, 1 6s 

"An honest man's the noblest work of 

God":i 
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly 
road. 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind : 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous 
load, 169 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven 
is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content! 175 

And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives 
prevent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be 
rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
lov'd isle. 180 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 
heart. 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, — 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art. 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 

never, never Scotia's realm desert. 
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! 

^ Quoted from Pope 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR 
THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS 

ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 
Sae pious and sae holy, 

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neibour's fauts and foUy ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun ^ mill, 5 

Supply'd wi' store o' water. 
The heapet happer's ^ ebbing still. 

And stiU the clap ^ plays clatter, — 

Hear me, ye venerable core,^ 

As counsel for poor mortals, 10 

That frequent pass douce ^ Wisdom's door 

For glaiket ^ Folly's portals ; 

1 for their thoughtless, careless sakes 
Would here propone defences — 

Their donsie "^ tricks, their black mistakes, 15 
Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer ; ^ 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What maks the mighty differ ? ^ 20 

Discount what scant occasion gave. 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft ^° mair than a' the lave ") 

Your better art o' hidin. 



Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What ragings must his veins convulse 

That stiU eternal gaUop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith ^ to saU, 

It maks an uncp ^^ leeway. 



25 



30 



See Social Life and Glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking. 
Till, quite transmugrify'd," they're grown 35 

Debauchery and Drinking : 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or — ■ your more dreaded hell to state — 

Damnation of expenses ! 40 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 
Tied up in godly laces, 

^ well-going ^ heaped hopper is ^ clapper 
* company ^ grave ^ gidd)^ '' reckless * exchange 
^ difference ^° often ^^ rest ^^ both ^^ wonderful 
^^ metamorphosed 



A BARD'S EPITAPH 



369 



Before you gie poor Frailty names, 

Suppose a change 0' cases : 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 45 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, ^ 

Ye're aiblins ^ nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 50 

Tho' they may gang a kennin ^ wrang. 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark. 

The moving Why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 55 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord, its various tone. 

Each spring, its various bias: 60 

Then at the balance, let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly can compute. 

But know not what's resisted. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE 
PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786 

Wee, modest, crimson -tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; ■ 
For I maim crush amang the stoure ■* 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, S 

Thou bonie gem. 

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet. 
The bonie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 10 

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 

Upon thy early, humble birth ; 

Yet cheerfully thou ghnted forth 15 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield 
High shelt'ring woods an' wa's ^ maun shield : 

^ ear ^ perhaps ' trifle ■* dust ^ walls 



But thou, beneath the random bield ^ 

O' clod or stane. 
Adorns the histie ^ stibble-field 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd 

And guileless trust ; 
Tin she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
TiU bUlows rage and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er! 



25 



30 



35 



40 



Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 45 

To mis'ry's brink ; 
TUl, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He ruin'd sink! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 50 

Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate. 

Full on thy bloom, 
TiU crush'd beneath the furrow's weight 

Shall be thy doom. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre ^ fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate ■• to seek, owre proud to snool? ^ 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,*^ 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 



^ shelter 
sorrow 



dry ^ over ■* bashful ^ cringe 



370 



ROBERT BURNS 



That weekly this area throng ? — 

Oh, pass not by! 
But with a f rater-feeling strong 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs himiself life's mad career 

Wild as the wave? — 
Here pause — and thro' the starting tear 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend! whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 



IS 



25 



3° 



TAM O' SHANTER 
A TALE 

Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. 
— Gawin Douglas 

When chapman billies ^ leave the street, 
And drouthy ^ neibors neibors meet. 
As market-days are wearing late. 
And folk begin to tak the gate; 
While we sit bousin at the nappy,' 5 

And gettin fou and unco "^ happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps,^ and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, 10 

Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter : 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 15 
For honest men and bonie lasses.) 

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise 
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! 

^ pedlers ^ thirsty ^ ale ^ marvellously ^ gaps 



She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,^ 

A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum; ^ 20 

That frae November tiU October, 

Ae ^ market-day thou was na sober ; 

That ilka ^ melder ^ wi' the miller. 

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 

That ev'ry naig ^ was ca'd ^ a shoe on, 25 

The smith and thee gat roarin fou on ; 

That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 

She prophesied, that, late or soon, 

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 

Or catch't wi' warlocks ^ in the mirk,^ 31 

By AUoway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars ^° me greet,^^ 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthened sage advices, 35 

The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right. 
Fast by an ingle, ^^ bleezin finely, 
Wi' reamin swats ^^ that drank divinely ; 40 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony : 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; " 
They had been fou ^^ for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; 45 
And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious 
Wi' secret fayours, sweet, and precious : 
The souter ^^ tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 50 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy : ^^ 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 55 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 60 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 

^ wretch ^ idle-talker ^ one ^ every ^ grinding 
® nag ^ driven ^ wizards ^ dark ^^ makes ^^ weep 
^^ fireside ^^ foaming ale ^* brother ^^ full ^'^ cob- 
bler ^' ale 



TAM O' SHANTER 



371 



Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 



65 



Nae man can telher time or tide : 
The hour approaches Tarn mami ride, — 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 

stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 70 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallov/'d ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd • 
That night, a child might miderstand, 
The DeU had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, — 
A better never hfted leg, — 80 

Tam skelpit ^ on thro' dub ^ and mire. 
Despising Avind and rain and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, 
Whiles gloAATrin round wi' prudent cares, 85 
Lest bogles ^ catch him unawares. 
Kirk- Alio way was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets * nightly cry. 

By this lime he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; ^ 
And past the birks '' and meikle '' stane, 91 
Whare drucken * Charlie brak's neck-bane ; ^ 
And thro' the whins,^° and by the cairn .^^ 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; i- 
And near the thorn, aboon " the well, 95 

Whare jNIungo's mither hang'd hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings ilash from pole to pole, 
Near and more near the thimders roU ; 100 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk- Alio way seemed in a bleeze : ^^ 
Thro' ilka bore ^^ the beams were glancing. 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 105 

What dangers thou can'st make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny ^^ we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae ^' we'll face the devil ! 

' clattered - puddle ^ goblins ''. owls ^ smothered 
*" birches 'big * drunken ^neck-bone '" gorse 
'^ pile of stones "child ''above '* blaze ^* every 
crevice '® twopenny ale '^ whiskey 



The swats ' sae ream'd ^ in Tammie's noddle. 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.^ ik 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, wow! Tam saw an unco ■• sight ! 



IIS 



Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent-new ^ frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels 
Put life and mettle in their heels : 
A winnock ^ bimker ' in the east, 
There sat Aidd Nick in shape o' beast ; 120 
A towzie tyke,* black, grim, and large. 
To gie them music was his charge ; 
He screw'd the pipes and gart ^ them skirl, ^^ 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.^ — 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 125 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantraip ^ sleight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table 130 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; '^ 
Twa span-lang, v^^ee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae the rape '^ — • 
Wi' his last gasp his gab '^ did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; 135 
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft — • 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu' 



140 



As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew, 145 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they 

cleekit,^® 
Till ilka carlin i'^ swat ^ and reekit,'^ 
And coost -° her duddies -^ to the wark ^ 
And linket at it in her sark ! ^ 150 

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,^^ 
A' plump and strapping in their teens ! 



' ale ^ foamed ^ copper ^ marvellous '^ brand- 
;w ^ window ^ seat * shaggy cur * made 
scream '^ throb " tricksy •'' irons ^ ' rope 



ndow ^ seat ''shagg,^ ^«. 

^^ scream '^ throb " tricksy •'' irons ..^^^^ 

'^ mouth '^ clutched '" old woman '® sweated 
'' steamed ^^ cast aside ^^ clothes '^^ work '■" che- 
mise ^^ girls 



372 



ROBERT BURNS 



Their sarks, instead o' creeshie ^ flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! ^ — 
Thir ^ breeks o' mine, my only pair, 155 

That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gien them aff my hurdles,^ 
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! ^ 



But Tarn ken'd what was what fu' brawlie ; ^ 
There was ae winsom wench and walie,^ 
That night enlisted in the core ^ 165 

(Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore ; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonie boat. 
And shook baith meikle ^ corn and bear,!" 
And kept the country-side in fear) ; 170 

Her cutty sark ^^ o' Paisley harn,^ 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie.^^ 
Ah! little kent thy reverend grannie, 175 

That sark she cof t ^^ for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r, 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 180 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jad she was and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd. 
And thought his very een ^^ enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd ^^ fu' fain,^'' 185 
And hotch'd ^^ and blew wi' might and 

main : 
Till first ae caper, syne ^^ anither, 
Tam tint ^° his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"^^ 
And in an instant all was dark: 190 

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,^^ 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; ^^ 
As open pussie's ^^ mortal foes, 195 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When "Catch the thief !" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch ^^ skriech and hollo. 200 



«w 



^ greasy ^ very fine linen ^ these * hips ^ 
.veil ^ goodly ^ company ^ much ^° barley ^^ i 
:irt ^^ linen ^^ proud ^"^ bought ^^ eyes ^® fidf 
eagerly ^^ squirmed ^^ then ^^ lost ^^ Short- 
fuss ^^ hive ^"^ the hare's *^ unearthly 



Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'U get thy fairin ! ^ 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 205 

And win the key-stane of the brig : ^ 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient ^ a tail she had to shake ! 210 

For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; * 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae ^ spring brought aff her master hale, 215 
But left behind her ain ® grey tail : 
The carlin '^ claught her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk^ man and mother's son, take heed, 220 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys owre ^ dear. 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mear.^" 



BONIE DOON 

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, 

How can ye blume sae fair ? 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae fu' o' care ? 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 5 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days, 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird. 
That sings beside thy mate ; 10 

For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon 

To see the wood-bine twine. 
And ilka ^ bird sang o' its luve, 15 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' Hghtsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Frae aff its thorny tree ; 
And my fause " luver staw ^^ my rose 

But left the thorn wi' me. 20 

^ reward ^ bridge ^ devil ^ aim ^ one *' own 
^ wench ** every ^ over ^^ mare ^^ false ^- stole 



HIGHLAND MARY 



373 



AE FOND KISS 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; , 

Ae fareweel, and then forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 



The Powers aboon will tent ^ thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer ^ thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, . 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonie. 



I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 

Naething could resist my Nancy ; lo 

But to see her was to love her ; 

Love but her, and love forever. 

Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 

Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 

Never met — or never parted — 15 

We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 

Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 

Thine be ilka ^ joy and treasure. 

Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 20 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 

Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 

Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee ! 



BONIE LESLEY 

saw ye bonie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 5 

And love but her forever ; 
For Nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy subjects, we before thee: 10 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith - thee. 

Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
He'd look into thy bonie face, 15 

And say, "I canna wrang thee." 



HIGHLAND MARY 

Ye banks, and braes,^ and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! * 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 5 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel, 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,^ 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 10 

As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp 'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 15 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wr monie a vow and lock'd embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder ; 20 

But O ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 25 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance. 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mould'ring now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 30 

But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

^ tend - hurt ^ slopes * muddy '•' birch 



ever}' - injure 



374 



ROBERT BURNS 



DUNCAN GRAY 



SCOTS WHA HAE 



Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 
On blythe Yule night when we were fou,^ 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 
Maggie coost her head fu hiegh, 
Look'd asklent ^ and unco skiegh,^ 
Gart * poor Duncan stand abiegh ; ^ 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 



Soots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 

Or to victory ! 
Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power 

Chains and slavery ! 



Duncan fleech'd,^ and Dxmcan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,^ 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat * his een ^ baith bleer't ^" and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin ^^ owre a linn ; ^^ 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 



IS 



Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 

Let him turn and flee ! 
Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa', 

Let him follow me ! 



15 



Time and chance are but a tide, 
Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 

Slighted love is sair to bide,^* 
Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 

"Shall I, like a fool," quoth he, 

"For a haughty hizzie ^* die? 

She may gae to — France for me ! " 
Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 



By oppression's woes and pains 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free ! 
Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 

Let us do or die ! 



How it comes let doctors tell, 25 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 
Meg grew sick as he grew hale, 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 30 

And O ! her een, they spak sic things ! 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 35 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 
Duncan could na be her death. 
Swelling pity smoor'd ^^ his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse ^^ and cantie " baith ; 

Ha, ha, the wooin o't ! 40 



I full ^ sidewise ^ wondrous shy * made ^ 
® flattered ^ a mountainous island off Ayrshii 



' wept 

fall 

^^ bright 



' eyes 



'^ hard to endure 
^^ happy 



nountamous isiana on nyrsnire 
^° bleared " leaping ^ water- 
endure ^^ lass ^^ smothered 



5 off 

ire 
^ water- 



A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hings his head, an' a' that ? 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 
We dare be poor for a' that ! 

For a' that, an' a' that, 5 

Our toils obscure, an' a' that ; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp ; 
The man's the gowd ^ for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hodden-gray,'^ an' a' that ; 10 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that ; 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 15 
Is king o' men for a' that. 



^ gold ^ coarse grey cloth 



A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT 



375 



Ye see yon birkie/ ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a. coof ^ for a' that : 20 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

His riband, star, an' a' that, 
The man o' independent mmd. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 25 

A marquis, duke, an' a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon ^ his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' * that ! 

^ young fellow ^ fool ^ above * cannot 
accomplish 



For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their dignities, an' a' that, 30 

The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that. 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 35 
May bear the gree,^ an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er. 
Shall brothers be for a' that. 40 

^ prize 



THE ROMANTIC REVIVAL 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

(1770-1850) 

From THE PREFACE TO "LYRICAL 
BALLADS" 



The principal object, then, which I proposed 
to myself in these Poems was to choose inci- 
dents and situations from common life, and to 
relate or describe them, throughout, as far as 
was possible, in a selection of language really- 
used by men, and, at the same time, to throw 
over them a certain colouring of imagination, 
whereby ordinary things should be presented 
to the mind in an unusual way ; and, further, 
and above aU, to make these incidents and 
situations interesting by tracing in them, 
truly though not ostentatiously, the primary 
laws of our nature : chiefly, as far as regards 
the manner in which we associate ideas in a 
state of excitement. Low and rustic life was 
generally chosen, because, in that condition, 
the essential passions of the heart find a better 
soil in which they can attain their maturity, 
are less under restraint, and speak a plainer 
and more emphatic language ; because in that 
condition of life our elementary feelings co- 
exist in a state of greater simplicity, and, con- 
sequently, may be more accurately contem- 
plated, and more forcibly communicated; 
because the manners of rural life germinate 
from those elementary feelings ; and from the 
necessary character of rural occupations, are 
more easily comprehended, and are more 
durable ; and, lastly, because in that condition 
the passions of men are incorporated with 
the beautiful and permanent forms of nature. 
The language, too, of these men is adopted 
(purified indeed from what appears to be its 
real defects, from all lasting and rational 
causes of dislike or disgust) because such men 
hourly communicate with the best objects 
from which the best part of language is origi- 
nally derived ; and because, from their rank 



in society and the sameness and narrow circle 
of their intercourse, being less under the influ- 
ence of social vanity, they convey their feel- 
ings and notions in simple and unelaborated 
expressions. Accordingly, such a language, 
arising out of repeated experience and regular 
feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more 
philosophical language, than that which is 
frequently substituted for it by Poets, who 
think that they are conferring honour upon 
themselves and their art, in proportion as they 
separate themselves from the sympathies of 
men, and indiilge in arbitrary and capricious 
habits of expression, in order to furnish food 
for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their 
own creation. 

I cannot, however, be insensible of the pres- 
ent outcry against the triviality and meanness, 
both of thought and language, which some of 
my contemporaries have occasionally intro- 
duced into their metrical compositions ; and I 
acknowledge that this defect, where it exists, 
is more dishonourable to the Writer's own 
character than false refinement or arbitrary 
innovation, though I should contend at the 
same time, that it is far less pernicious in the 
sum of its consequences. From such verses 
the Poems in these volumes will be found dis- 
tinguished at least by one mark of difference, 
that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not 
that I mean to say, I always began to write 
with a distinct purpose formally conceived; 
but my habits of meditation have so formed, 
my feelings, as that my descriptions of such 
objects as strongly excite those feelings, will 
be found to carry along with them a purpose. 
If in this opinion I am mistaken, I can have 
httle right to the name of a Poet. For all 
good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of 
powerful feelings: and though this be true, 
Poems to which any value can be attached 
were never produced on any variety of sub- 
jects but by a man, who, being possessed of 
more than usual organic sensibility, had also 
thought long and deeply. For our continued 
influxes of feeling are modified and directed 
by our thoughts, which are indeed the repre- 



376 



PREFACE TO "LYRICAL BALLADS" 



377 



sentatives of all our past feelings : and, as' by 
contemplating the relation of these general 
representatives to each other we discover 
what is really important to men, so, by the 
repetition and continuance of this act, our 
feelings will be connected with important 
subjects, till at length, - if we be originally 
possessed of much sensibility, such habits of 
mind will be produced, that, by observing 
blindly and mechanically the impulses of those 
habits, we shall describe objects, and utter 
sentiments, of such a nature, and in such 
connection with each other, that the under- 
standmg of the being to whom we address 
ourselves, if he be in a healthful state of asso- 
ciation, must necessarily be in some degree 
enlightened, and his affections ameliorated. 



I wall not abuse the indulgence of my 
Reader by dwelling longer upon this subject ; 
but it is proper that I should mention one 
other circumstance which distinguishes these 
Poems from the popular Poetry of the day; 
it is this, that the feeling therein developed 
gives importance to the action and situation, 
and not the action and situation to the feeling. 
My meaning will be rendered perfectly intelU- 
gible by referring my Reader to the Poems 
entitled Poor Susan and the Childless Father, 
particularly to the last Stanza of the latter 
Poem. 

I wiU not sixffer a sense of false modesty to 
prevent me from assertmg, that I point my 
Reader's attention to this mark of distinction, 
far less for the sake of these particular Poems 
than from the general importance of the sub- 
ject. The subject is indeed important ! For 
the human mind is capable of being excited 
without the application of gross and violent 
stimulants; and he must have a very faint 
perception of its beauty and dignity who does 
not know this, and who does not further know, 
that one being is elevated above another, in 
proportion as he possesses this capability. 
It has therefore appeared to me, that to en- 
deavour to produce or enlarge this capability 
is one of the best services in which, at any 
period, a Writer can be engaged ; but this 
service, excellent at all times, is especially so 
at the present day. For a multitude of causes, 
unknown to former times, are now acting with 
a combined force to blunt the discriminating 
powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all 
voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a state of ■ 



almost savage torpor. The most effective of 
these causes are the great national events 
which are daily taking place, and the increas- 
ing accumulation of men in cities, where the 
uniformity of their occupations produces a 
craving for extraordinary incident, which the 
rapid communication of intelligence hourly 
gratifies. To this tendency of life and man- 
ners the literatiu-e and theatrical exhibitions of 
the country have conformed themselves. The 
invaluable works of our elder writers, I had 
almost said the works of Shakspeare and 
Milton, are' driven into neglect by frantic 
novels, sickly and stupid German Tragedies, 
and deluges of idle and extravagant stories in 
verse. — When I think upon this degrading 
thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am 
almost ashamed to have spoken of the feeble 
effort with which I have endeavoured to 
coimteract it ; and, reflecting upon the magni- 
tude of the general evil, I should be oppressed 
with no dishonourable melancholy, had I not 
a deep impression of certain inherent and in- 
destructible qualities of the human mind, and 
likewise of certain powers in the great and 
permanent objects that act upon it, which are 
equally inherent and indestructible ; and did 
I not further add to this impression a belief, 
that the time is approaching when the evil 
wUl be systematically opposed, by men of 
greater powers, and with far more distin- 
guished success. 

Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and 
aim of these Poems, I shall request the 
Reader's permission to apprise him of a few 
circumstances relating to their style, in order, 
among other reasons, that I may not be cen- 
sured for not having performed what I never 
attempted. The Reader will find that per- 
sonifications of abstract ideas rarely occur 
hi these volumes; and, I hope, are utterly 
rejected as an ordinary device to elevate the 
style, and raise it above prose. I have pro- 
posed to myself to imitate, and, as far as is 
possible, to adopt the very language of men ; 
and assuredly such personifications do not 
make any natural or regular part of that lan- 
guage. They are, indeed, a figure of speech 
occasionally prompted by passion, and I have 
made use of them as such ; but I have en- 
deavoured utterly to reject them as a mechan- 
ical device of style, or as a family language 
which Writers in metre seem to lay claim to 
by prescription. I have wished to keep my 
Reader in the company of flesh and blood, 



378 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



persuaded that by so doing I shall interest 
him. I am, however, well aware that others 
who pursue a different track may interest 
him likewise ; I do not interfere with their 
claim, I only wish to prefer a different claim 
of my own. There will also be found in these 
pieces little of what is usually called poetic 
diction ; I have taken as much pains to avoid 
it as others ordinarily take to produce it ; this 
I have done for the reason already alleged, to 
bring my language near to the language of 
men, and further, because the pleasure which 
I have proposed to myself to impart, is of a 
kind very different from that which is sup» 
posed by many persons to be the proper 
object of poetry. I do not know how, with- 
out being culpably particular, I can give my 
Reader a more exact notion of the style in 
which I wished these poems to be written, 
than, by informing him that I have at aU 
times endeavoured to look steadily at my 
subject, consequently, I hope that there is in 
these Poems little falsehood of description, 
and that my ideas are expressed in language 
fitted to their respective importance. Some- 
thing I must have gained by this practice, as 
it is friendly to one property of aU good poetry, 
namely, good sense ; but it has necessarily 
cut me off from a large portion of phrases and 
figures of speech which from father to son have 
long been regarded as the common inheritance 
of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to 
restrict myself still further, having abstained 
from the use of many expressions, in them- 
selves proper and beautiful, but which have 
been foohshly repeated by bad Poets, till 
such feelmgs of disgust are connected with 
them as it is scarcely possible by any art of 
association to overpower. 

If in a poem there should be found a series 
of lines, or even a single line, in which the 
language, though naturally arranged, and ac- 
cording to the strict laws of metre, does not 
differ from that of prose, there is a numerous 
class of critics who, when they stumble upon 
these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine 
that they have made a notable discovery, and 
exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of 
his own profession. Now these men would 
estabhsh a canon of criticism which the Reader 
will conclude he must utterly reject, if he 
wishes to be pleased with these pieces. And it 
would be a most easy task to prove to him, 
that not only the language of a large portion 
of every good poem, even of the most elevated 



character, must necessarily, except with ref- 
erence to the metre, in no respect differ from 
that of good prose, but likewise that some of 
the most interesting parts of the best poems 
will be fovmd to be strictly the language of 
prose, when prose is well written. The truth 
of this assertion might be demonstrated by 
inmmierable passages from almost all the 
poetical writings, even of Milton himself. 

I will go further. I do not doubt that it 
may be safely affirmed, that there neither is, 
nor can be, any essential difference between 
the language of prose and metrical composi- 
tion. We are fond of tracing the resem- 
blance between Poetry and Painting, and, 
accordingly, we call them Sisters : but where 
shall we find bonds of connection sufficiently 
strict to typify the affinity betwixt metrical 
and prose composition ? They both speak by 
and to the same organs ; the bodies in which 
both of them are clothed may be said to be of 
the same substance, their affections are kin- 
dred, and almost identical, not necessarily 
differing even in degree ; Poetry ^ sheds no 
tears "such as Angels weep" but natxnral and 
human tears ; she can boast of no celestial 
Ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from 
those of prose; the same human blood cir- 
culates through the veins of them both. 

If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical 
arrangement of themselves constitute a dis- 
tinction which overtiu^ns what I have been 
saying on the strict affinity of metrical lan- 
guage with that of prose, and paves the way 
for other artificial distinctions which the mind 
volimtarily admits, I answer that the lan- 
guage of such Poetry as I am recommending 
is, as far as is possible, a selection of the lan- 
guage really spoken by men ; that this selec- 
tion, wherever it is made with true taste and 
feeling, wiU of itself form a distinction far 
greater than would at first be imagined, and 

^ I here use the word "Poetry" (though against 
my own judgment) as opposed to the word 
" Prose," and synonymous with metrical composi- 
sion. But much confusion has been introduced 
into criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry 
and Prose, instead of th^ more philosophical one 
of Poetry and Matter of Fact, or Science. The 
only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre : nor is this, 
in truth, a strict antithesis ; because lines and pas- 
sages of metre so naturally occur in writing prose, 
that it would be scarcely possible to avoid them, 
. even were it desirable. 



PREFACE TO "LYRICAL BALLADS 



379 



will entirely separate the composition from 
the vulgarity and meanness of ordinary life ; 
and, if metre be superadded thereto, I believe 
that a dissimihtude will be produced alto- 
gether sufficient for the gratification of a 
rational mind. What other distinction would 
we have? Whence is it to come? And 
where is it to exist? Not, surely, where the 
Poet speaks through the mouths of his char- 
acters : it caimot be necessary here, either for 
elevation of style, or any of its supposed orna- 
ments : for, if the Poet's subject be judiciously 
chosen, it will naturally, and upon fit occasion, 
lead him to passions the language of which, if 
selected tndy and judiciously, must neces- 
sarily be dignified and variegated, and alive 
with metaphors and figures. I forbear to 
speak of an mcongruity which would shock 
the intelhgent Reader, should the Poet mter- 
weave any foreign splendour of his own with 
that which the passion naturally suggests: 
it is suificient to say that such addition is un- 
necessary. And, surely, it is more probable 
that those passages, which with propriety 
abound with metaphors and figures, will have 
their due effect, if, upon other occasions where 
the passions are of a milder character, the style 
also be subdued and temperate. 

But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by 
the Poems I now present to the Reader must 
depend entirely on just notions upon this sub- 
ject, and, as it is in itself of the highest impor- 
tance to our taste and moral feehngs, I cannot 
content myself with these detached remarks. 
And if, in what I am abolit to say, it shaU 
appear to some that my labour is unnecessary, 
and that I am hke a man fighting a battle 
without enemies, I would remind such per- 
sons, that, whatever may be the language 
outwardly holden by men, a practical faith 
in the opinions wliich I am wishing to estab- 
lish is almost unkno-ma. If my conclusions are 
admitted, and carried as far as they must be 
carried if admitted at all, our judgments 
concerning the works of the greatest Poets 
both ancient and modern will be far different 
from what they are at present, both when we 
praise, and when we censure : and our moral 
feelings influencing and influenced by these 
judgments will, I believe, be corrected and 
purified. 

Taking up the subject, then, upon general 
grounds, I ask what is meant by the word 
" Poet " ? What is a Poet ? To whom does he 
address himself ? And what language is to be 



expected from him ? He is a man speaking to 
men: a man, it is true, endued with more 
lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tender- 
ness, who has a greater knowledge of human 
nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than 
are supposed to be common among mankind; 
a man pleased with his own passions and 
volitions, and who rejoices more than other 
men in the spirit of life that is in him; de- 
lighting to contemplate similar volitions and 
passions as manifested in the goings-on of the 
Universe, and habitually impelled to create 
them where he does not find them. To these 
qualities he has added, a disposition to be 
affected more than other men by absent things 
as if they were present ; an ability of conjuring 
up in himself passions, which are indeed far 
from being the same as those produced by real 
events, yet (especially in those parts of the 
general sympathy which are pleasing and de- 
lightfifl) do more nearly resemble the passions 
produced by real events, than anything which, 
from the motions of their own minds merely, 
other men are accustomed to feel in them- 
selves; whence, and from practice, he has 
acquired a greater readiness and power in 
expressing what he thinks and feels, and es- 
pecially those thoughts and feelmgs which, 
by his own choice, or from the structure of his 
own mind, arise in him without immediate 
external excitement. 

But, whatever portion of this faculty w^e 
may suppose even the greatest Poet to pos- 
sess, there cannot be a doubt but that the 
language which it will suggest to him, must, 
in liveliness and truth, fall far short of that 
which is uttered by men in real life, vmder the 
actual pressure of those passions, certain shad- 
ows of which the Poet thus produces, or feels 
to be produced, in himself. 

However exalted a notion we woifld wish to 
cherish of the character of a Poet, it is obvious, 
that, wiiile he describes and imitates passions, 
his situation is altogether slavish and mechan- 
ical, compared with the freedom and power 
of real and substantial action and suffering. 
So that it will be the wish of the Poet to bring 
his feelings near to those of the persons whose 
feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of 
time, perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire 
delusion, and even confound and identify his 
own feelings with theirs; modifying only the 
language which is thus suggested to him by a 
consideration that he describes for a particular 
purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then, 



38o 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



he will apply the principle on which I have so 
much insisted, namely, that of selection; on 
this he will depend for removing what would 
otherwise be painful or disgusting in the pas- 
sion ; he will feel that there is no necessity to 
trick out or to elevate nature : and, the more 
industriously he applies this principle, the 
deeper will be his faith that no words, which 
his fancy or imagination can suggest, will be 
to be compared with those which are the 
emanations of reahty and truth. 

But it may be said by those who do not 
object to the general spirit of these remarks, 
that, as it is impossible for the poet to produce 
upon all occasions language as exqmsitely 
fitted for the passion as that which the real 
passion itself suggests, it is proper that he 
should consider himself as in the situation of 
a translator, who deems himself justified 
when he substitutes excellencies of another 
kind for those which are unattainable by him ; 
and endeavours occasionally to surpass his 
original, in order to make some amends for 
the general inferiority to which he feels that 
he must submit. But this would be to en- 
courage idleness and rmmanly despair. Fur- 
ther, it is the language of men who speak 
of what they do not imderstand; who talk 
of Poetry as of a matter of amusement and idle 
pleasure ; who will converse with us as gravely 
about a taste for Poetry, as they express it, as 
if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste for 
Rope-dancing, or Frontiniac ^ or Sherry. Aris- 
totle, I have been told, hath said, that Poetry 
is the most philosophic of aU writing : it is so : 
its object is truth, not individual and local, 
but general, and operative; not standing 
upon external testimony, but carried alive into 
the heart by passion; truth which is its own 
testimony, which gives strength and divinity 
to the tribunal to which it appeals, and re- 
ceives them from the same tribunal. Poetry 
is the image of man and nature. The ob- 
stacles which stand in the way of the fidelity 
of the Biographer and Historian and of their 
consequent utility, are incalculably greater 
than those which are to be encountered by the 
Poet who has an adequate notion of the 
dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one 
restriction only, namely, that of the necessity 
of giving immediate pleasure to a human 
Being possessed of that information which 
may be expected from him, not as a lawyer, a 

^ a sweet wine of France 



physician, a mariner, an astronomer, or a 
natural philosopher, but as a Man. Except 
this one restriction, there is no object standing 
between the Poet and the image of things; 
between this, and the Biographer and Histo- 
rian there are a thousand. 

Nor let this necessity of producing immedi- 
ate pleasure be considered as a degradation of 
the Poet's art. It is far otherwdse. It is an 
acknowledgment of the beauty of the universe, 
an acknowledgment the more sincere, because 
it is not formal, but indirect ; it is a task fight 
and easy to him who looks at the world in the 
spirit of love : further, it is an homage paid to 
the native and naked digruty of man, to the 
grand elementary principle of pleasure, by 
which he knows, and feels, and lives, and 
moves. We have no s3Tnpathy but what is 
propagated by pleasure : I would not be 
misimderstood ; but wherever we sympathise 
with pain, it will be found that the sympathy 
is produced and carried on by subtle combina- 
tions with pleasure. We have no knowledge, 
that is, no general principles dra^vn from the 
contemplation of particular facts, but what 
has been bmlt up by pleasure, and exists in 
us by pleasure alone. The Man of Science, 
the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever 
difiiculties and disgusts they may have had 
to struggle with, know and feel this. How- 
ever painful may be the objects with which 
the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, he 
feels that his knowledge is pleasure ; and 
where he has no pleasure he has no knowl- 
edge. What then does the Poet? He con- 
siders man and the objects that surround him 
as acting and reacting upon each other, so as 
to produce an infinite complexity of pain and 
pleasure ; he considers man ia his o\^ti nature 
and in his ordinary life as contemplating this 
with a certain quantity of inunediate knowl- 
edge, with certain convictions, intmtions, and 
deductions, which by habit become of the 
nature of intuitions; he considers him as 
looking upon this complex scene of ideas and 
sensations, and finduig everywhere objects 
that immediately excite in him sympathies 
which, from the necessities of his nature, 
are accompanied by an overbalance of en- 
joyment. 

To this knowledge which all men carry 
about with them, and to these s>Tnpathies in 
which, without any other discipline than that 
of our daily life, we are fitted to take defight, 
the Poet principally directs his attention. 



PREFACE TO "LYRICAL BALLADS" 



381 



He considers man and nature as essentially- 
adapted to each other, and the mind of man 
as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most 
interesting qualities of nature. And thus the 
Poet, prompted by this feeling of pleasure 
which accompanies him through the whole 
course of his studies, converses with general 
nature with affections akin to those, which, 
through labour and length of time, the Man 
of Science has raised up in himself, by convers- 
ing with those particular parts of nature 
which are the objects of his studies. The 
knowledge both of the Poet and the Man of 
Science is pleasure ; but the knowledge of the 
one cleaves to us as a necessary part of our 
existence, our natural and inaUenable inheri- 
tance; the other is a personal and individ- 
ual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by no 
habitual and direct s3Tnpathy connecting us 
with our fellow-beings. The Man of Science 
seeks truth as a remote and imknown bene- 
factor ; he cherishes and loves it in his soli- 
tude : the Poet, singing a song in which all 
human beings join with him, rejoices in the 
presence of truth as our visible friend and 
hourly companion. Poetry is the breath and 
finer spirit of all knowledge ; it is the impas- 
sioned expression which is in the countenance 
of all Science. Emphatically may it be said 
of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, 
"that he looks before and after." He is the 
rock of defence of human nature; an up- 
holder and preserver, carrying everywhere 
with him relationship and love. In spite of 
difference of soil and climate, of language and 
manners, of laws and customs, in spite of 
things silently gone out of mind, and things 
violently destroyed, the Poet binds together 
by passion and knowledge the vast empire of 
human society, as it is spread over the whole 
earth, and over all time. The objects of 
the Poet's thoughts are everywhere; though 
the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his 
favourite guides, yet he will follow whereso- 
ever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in 
which to move his wings. Poetry is the first 
and last of all knowledge — it is as immortal 
as the heart of man. If the labours of Men of 
Science should ever create any material revo- 
lution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and 
in the impressions which we habitually re- 
ceive, the Poet wiU sleep then no more than at 
present, but he will be ready to follow the 
steps of the Man of Science, not only in those 
general indirect effects, but he will be at his 



side, carrying sensation into the midst of the 
objects of the Science itself. The remotest 
discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or 
Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the 
Poet's art as any upon which it can be em- 
ployed, if the time should ever come when 
these thmgs shall be familiar to us, and the 
relations under which they are contemplated 
by the followers of these respective Sciences 
shall be manifestly and palpably material to 
us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the 
time should ever come when what is now 
called Science, thus familiarised to men, shall 
be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh 
and blood, the Poet will lend his divine 
spirit to aid the transfiguration, and will 
welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear 
and genuine inmate of the household of man. 
— It is not, then, to be supposed that any 
one, who holcis that sublime notion of Poetry 
which I have attempted to convey, will break 
in upon the sanctity and truth of his pictures 
by transitory and accidental ornaments, and 
endeavour to excite admiration of himself 
by arts, the necessity of which must manifestly 
depend upon the assumed meanness of his 
subject. 



I have said that poetry is the spontaneous 
overflow of powerful feelings : it takes its 
origin from emotion recollected in tran- 
quillity; the emotion is contemplated, till, 
by a species of reaction, the tranquillity 
gradually disappears, and an emotion, kin- 
dred to that which was before the subject of 
contemplation, is gradually produced, and 
does itself actually exist in the mind. In this 
mood successful composition generally be- 
gins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried 
on ; but the emotion of whatever kind, and 
in whatever degree, from various causes, is 
qualified by various pleasures, so that in de- 
scribing any passions whatsoever, which are 
voluntarily described, the mind will, upon the 
whole, be in a state of enjoyment. Now, if 
Nature be thus cautious m preserving in a 
state of enjoyment a being thus employed, 
the Poet ought to profit by the lesson thus held 
forth to him, and ought especially to take 
care, that, whatever passions he communicates 
to his Reader, those passions, if his Reader's 
mind be sound and vigorous, should always 
be accompanied with an overbalance of pleas- 
ure. How the music of harmonious metrical 



382 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



language, the sense of difi&culty overcome, and 
the blind association of pleasure which has 
been previously received from the works of 
rhyme or metre of the same or similar con- 
struction, and indistinct perception perpet- 
ually renewed of language closely resembling 
that of real life, and yet, in the circumstance 
of metre, differing from it so widely — all 
these imperceptibly make up a complex feel- 
ing of delight, which is of the most important 
use in tempering the painful feeling which will 
always be found intermingled with powerful 
descriptions of the deeper passions. This 
effect is always produced in pathetic and im- 
passioned poetry ; while, in lighter composi- 
tions, the ease and gracefulness with which 
the Poet manages his numbers are themselves 
confessedly a principal source of the gratifi- 
cation of the Reader. I might, perhaps, in- 
clude aU which it is necessary to say upon this 
subject, by affirming what few persons wUl 
deny, that, of two descriptions either of pas- 
sions, manners, or characters, each of them 
equally well executed, the one in prose and 
the other in verse, the verse wUl be read a 
hundred times where the prose is read once. 
We see that Pope, by the power of verse 
alone, has contrived to render the plainest 
common sense interesting, and even fre- 
quently to invest it with the appearance of 
passion. 



Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope 
he wiU permit me to caution him against a 
mode of false criticism which has been applied 
to Poetry in which the language closely re- 
sembles that of life and nature. Such verses 
have been triumphed over in parodies of 
which Dr. Johnson's stanza is a fair specimen. 

I put my hat upon my head 
And walked into the Strand, 
And there I met another man 
Whose hat was in his hand. 

Immediately under these lines I will place 
one of the most justly-admired stanzas of the 
"Babes in the Wood." 

These pretty babes with hand in hand 
Went wandering up and down ; 
But never more they saw the Man 
Approaching from the Town. 

In both these stanzas the words, and the 
order of the vrords, in no respect differ from 



the most unimpassioned conversation. There 
are words in both, for example, "the Strand," 
and "the Town," connected with none but 
the most familiar ideas ; yet the one stanza 
we admit as admirable, and the other as a 
fair example of the superlatively contemptible. 
Whence arises this difference? Not from the 
metre, not from the language, not from the 
order of the words; but the matter expressed 
in Dr. Johnson's stanza is contemptible. The 
proper method of treating trivial and simple 
verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza woidd 
be a fair parallelism, is not to say. This is a 
bad kind of poetry, or, This is not poetrj'-; 
but. This wants sense ; it is neither interesting 
in itself, nor can lead to anything interesting ; 
the images neither originate in that sane state 
of feeling which arises out of thought, nor 
can excite thought or feeling in the Reader, 
This is the only sensible manner of dealing 
with such verses. Why trouble yourself 
about the species till you have previously 
decided upon the genus ? Why take pains to 
prove that an ape is not a Newton, when it 
is self-evident that he is not a man? 



WE ARE SEVEN 



A simple child. 

That lightly draws its breath. 
And feels its hfe in every linab, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage girl : 5 

She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air. 

And she was wildly clad : 10 

Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 

— Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little maid. 

How many may you be?" 

"How many? Seven in all," she said, 15 

And wondering looked at me. 



"And where are they? I pray you tell." 

She answered, " Seven are we ; 

And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 20 



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 



383 



"Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

"You say that two at Conway dwell, 25 

And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
Sweet maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 30 

Two of us in the church-yard lie, * 
Beneath the church-yard tree." 

"You run about, my little maid, 

Your limbs they are alive ; 

If two are in the church-yard laid, 35 

Then ye are only five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," 

The little maid replied, 

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's 

door. 
And they are side by side. 40 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
And sing a song to them. 

"And often after sionset, sir, 45 

When it is light and fair, 
I take my httle porringer. 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was sister Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 50 

Till God released her of her pain ; 

And then she went away. 

"So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
And, when the grass was dry. 
Together round her grave we played, 55 

My brother John and I. 

"And when the ground was white with snow. 

And I could run and slide, 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he Ues by her side." 60 

"How many are you, then," said I. 
"If they two arc in heaven?" 
Quick was the Uttle maid's reply, 
"O master! we are seven." 



"But they are dead ; those two are dead 165. 

Their spirits are in heaven!" 

'Twas throwing words away ; for still 

The little maid would have her will, 

And said, "Nay, we are seven!" * 



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 

"Why, William, on that old grey stone, 
Thus for the length of half a day. 
Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
And dream your time away? 



"Where are your books? — that light be- 
queathed 5 
To beings else forlorn and blind! 
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind. 



"You look round on your Mother Earth, 
As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
As if you were her first-born birth, 
And none had lived before you!" 



One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. 
When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 
And thus I made reply : 



"The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
We cannot bid the ear be stUl ; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be. 
Against or with our wUl. 



"Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 

Of things forever speaking, 
That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must still be seeking ? 



" — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone. 
Conversing as I may, 30 

I sit upon this old grey stone, 
And dream my time away." 



384 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



THE TABLES TURNED 

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME 
SUBJECT 

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books ; 
Or surely you'll grow double : 
Up ! up ! my friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 5 

A freshening lustre mellow 
Through all the long green fields has spread, 
His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10 

How sweet his music ! on my fife 
There's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark! how bhthe the throstle sings! 
He, too, is no mean preacher : 
Come forth into the light of things, 15 

Let Nature be yovu: teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good. 
Than aU the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 25 
Our meddling intellect 

Misshapes the beauteous forms of things : — 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art ; 
Close up those barren leaves ; 30 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
That watches and receives. 

LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES 
ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON RE- 
VISITING THE BANKS OF THE 
WYE DURING A TOUR 

JULY 13, 1798 

Five years have past ; five summers, with the 

length 
Of five long winters! and again I hear 



These waters, rolhng from their mountain- 
springs 
With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- 
tufts. 
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. 
Are clad in bne green hue, and lose themselves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines 
Of sportive wood nm wild : these pastoral 
farms, 16 

Green to the very door ; ■ and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! 
With some imcertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers 'in the houseless woods, 20 
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 25 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 30 
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life. 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,35 
To them I may have owed another gift, 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood. 
In which the burthen of the mystery, 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 40 

Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our himian blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 45 

In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft — 50 
In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir 



TINTERN ABBEY 



38s 



Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 55 

sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the 

woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee! 
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished 

thought. 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 

The picture of the mind revives again : 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 65 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was 

when first 

1 came among these hiUs ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. 
Wherever nature led : more like a man 70 
Flying from somethmg that he dreads, than 

one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature 

then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 
And their glad animal movements aU gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 75 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 

wood. 
Their colours and their forms, were then to 

me 
An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 

That had no need of a remoter charm. 
By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — • That time is 

past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 85 
Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur ; other gifts 
Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, 
Abimdant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 91 

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime, 95 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean and the living air. 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 



A motion and a spirit, that impels 100 

AU thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I 

stiU 
A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth; of all the mighty 
world 105 

Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise 
In nature and the language of the sense. 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, iii 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river ; thou my dearest friend. 
My dear, dear friend ; and in thy voice I 
catch 116 

The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 
My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our fife, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 125 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor aU 
The dreary intercourse of daily Hfe, 131 

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that aU which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 135 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
To blow against thee : and, in after years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! 

then, 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
Should be thy portion, with what healing 

thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 145 
And these my exhortations! Nor, per- 
chance — 
If I should be where I no more can hear 



386 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 

gleams 
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together ; and that I, so long 151 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
Unwearied in that service : rather say 
With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 155 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy 

sake! 

LUCY 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone S 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived imknown, and few could know 
When Lucy ceased to be; 10 

But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
The difference to me! 



THREE YEARS SHE GREW 

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make S 

A lady of my own. 

"Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impidse : and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain. 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 10 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn, 

Or up the mountaui springs; 15 

And hers shall be the breathing bahn, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 



"The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the wiUow bend ; 20 

Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sjrmpathy. 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 25 

To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty bom of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 30 

"And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom sweU ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 35 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake — the work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 40 
The memory of what has been, 

And never more wiU be. 



A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 

A slimiber did my spirit seal ; 

I had no human fears ; 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force; 5 

She neither hears nor sees ; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 



LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew, 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
— The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door! 



THE RECLUSE 



387 



You yet may spy the fawn at play 

The hare upon the green ; 10 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 

Will never more be seen. 

"To-night will be a stormy night — 

You to the town must go ; 

And take a lantern, child, to light 15 

Your mother through the snow." 

"That, Father ! will I gladly do : 

'Tis scarcely afternoon — 

The minster-clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon ! " 20 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band ; 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe : 25 

With many a wanton stroke 

Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 

That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 

She wandered up and down ; 30 

And many a hiU did Lucy climb : 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 

Went shouting far and wide ; 

But there was neither somid nor sight 35 

To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on a hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor ; 

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 40 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, 
'Tn heaven we all shall meet ; " 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hilFs edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 46 

And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone-wall ; 



And then an open field they crossed : 
The marks were still the same ; 
They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
And to the bridge they came. 



50 



They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank ; 55 

And further there were none! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 60 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 

THE RECLUSE 
From BOOK I 

On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
Fair trains of imagery before me rise. 
Accompanied by feelings of delight 
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 5 
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
And dear remembrances, whose presence 

soothes 
Or elevates the mind, intent to weigh 
The good and evil of our mortal state. 9 

— To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 
Whether from breath of outward circumstance, 
Or from the soul — an impulse to herself — 
I would give vitterance in numerous^ verse. 
Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and 

Hope, 
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 1 5 
Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
Of moral strength, and intellectual power; 
Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
Of the individual mind that keeps her own 
Inviolate retirement, subject there 20 

To conscience only, and the law supreme 
Of that Intelligence which governs all — ■ 
I sing :^ "fit audience let me find though 

few!" 2 
So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the 

bard — 
In holiest mood. Urania,^ I shall need 25 
Thy guidance, or a greater muse, if such 
Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven ! 
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must 

sink 

^ melodious ^ Quoted from Milton. ^ Cf. note 
on Shelley's Adonais, 1. 12 



388 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in 
worlds 29 

To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
All strength — all terror, single or in bands, 
That ever was put forth in personal form — 
Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir 
Of shouting angels, and the empyreal thrones — 
I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 35 
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
By help of dreams — can breed such fear and 

awe 
As falls upon us often when we look 
Into our minds, into the mind of Man — 40 
My haunt, and the main region of my song. 

— Beauty — a living Presence of the earth, 
Surpassing the most fair ideal forms 
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
From earth's materials — waits upon my 

steps ; 45 

Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves 
Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those of old 
Sought in the Atlantic Main — why should 

they be 
A history only of departed things, 50 

Or a mere iiction of what never was? 
For the discerning intellect of Man, 
When wedded to this goodly universe 
In love and holy passion, shall find these 
A simple produce of the common day. 55 

— I, long before the blissful hour arrives. 
Would chant, in lonel}'^ peace, the spousal 

verse 
Of this great consummation : — and, by words 
Which speak of nothing more than what we 

are, 
Woiild I arouse the sensual from their sleep 60 
Of death, and win the vacant and the vain 
To noble raptures ; whUe my voice proclaims 
How exquisitely the individual mind 
(And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
Of the whole species) to the external world 65 
Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too — 
Theme this but little heard of among men — 
The external world is fitted to the mind ; 
And the creation (by no lower name 
Can it be called) which they with blended 

might 70 

Accomphsh : — this is our high argument.^ 

— Such grateful havmts foregoing, if I oft 
Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the 

tribes 

^ great subject 



And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
Of madding passions mutually inflamed ; 75 
Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 
Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
Within the walls of cities — may these sounds 
Have their authentic comment ; that even 

these 81 

Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 
Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st 
The human Soul of universal earth. 
Dreaming on things to come; and dost 

possess 85 

A metropolitan temple in the hearts 
Of mighty poets ; upon me bestow 
A gift of genuine insight ; that my song 
With star-like virtue in its place may shine. 
Shedding benignant influence, and secure 90 
Itself from aU malevolent effect 
Of those mutations that extend their sway 
Throughout the nether sphere! — And if with 

this 
I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 95 
Contemplating ; and who, and what he was — 
The transitory being that beheld 
This vision ; — when and where, and how he 

lived ; 
Be not this labour useless. If such theme 
May sort with highest objects, then — dread 

Power! 100 

Whose gracious favour is the primal source 
Of aU illumination — may my life 
Express the image of a better time. 
More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — 

nurse 
My heart in genuine freedom : — all pure 

thoughts 105 

Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 
Guide, and support, and cheer me to the 

end! 



TO THE CUCKOO 

blithe New-comer! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but. a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear. 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 



389 



Though babbling only to the Vale, 

Of sunshine and of flowers, 10 

Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 
Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 15 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

I listened to ; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 

In bush, and tree, and sky. 20 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
StiU longed for, never seen. 

And I can Hsten to thee yet ; 25 

Can lie upon the plain 
And hsten, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

blessed Bird! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 30 

An unsubstantial faery place, 
That is fit home for thee! 



MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I 
BEHOLD 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old. 

Or let me die! 
The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
Reaping and singing by herself ; 
Stop here, or gently pass! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O hsten ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 



No nightingale did ever chaunt 

More welcome notes to weary bands 10 

Of travellers in some shady haunt, 

Among Arabian sands : 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird 

Breaking the silence of the seas 15 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago : 20 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Famihar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 

That has been, and may be agam ? 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 25 

As if her song could have no ending ; 

I saw her singing at her work. 

And o'er the sickle bending ; — 

I listened, motionless and still ; 

And, as I mounted up the hiU 30 

The music in my heart I bore, 

Long after it was heard no more. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 

She was a phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 

A lovely apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament ; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 5 

Like tAvilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and way -lay. 10 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-hberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 15 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food ; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 21 

The very pulse of the machine ; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath, 



390 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



A traveller between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 

A perfect woman, nobly planned. 

To warn, to comfort, and command ; 

And yet a spirit still, and bright 

With somethmg of angehc light. 30 



I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils ; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 5 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 

And twinkle on the milky way, 

They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay : 10 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced ; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay 15 

In such a jocund company : 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 20 

They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude ; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 

And dances with the daffodils. 



ODE TO DUTY 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

O Duty! if that name thou love 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 

Thou, who art victory and law 5 

When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free ; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 10 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth : 



Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot 
Who do thy work, and know it not : 
Oh! if through confidence misplaced 15 

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! 
around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be. 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 20 

And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their 
need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried; 25 

No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 

The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now woiild serve more strictly, if I 
may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control ; 35 

But in the quietness of thought : 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 40 

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace. ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 45 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, 
are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power! 
I call thee : I myself commend 50 

Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 55 

And in the light of truth thy bondman let me 
live! 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 



391 



PERSONAL TALK 



I am not one who much or oft deUght 
To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
Of friends, who Uve within an easy walk, 
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : 
And, for ^ my chance-acquaintance, ladies 
bright, ... 5 

Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the 

stalk, 
These all wear out of me, like forms, with 

chalk 
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast- 
night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
Long, barren silence, square with my desire ;io 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
In the loved presence of my cottage fire, 
And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 

n 

"Yet life," you say, "is life ; we have seen and 

see, _ 15 

And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
The languid mind into activity. 
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and 

glee 
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 20 
Even be it so ; yet still among your tribe, 
Our daily world's true worldings, rank not 

me! 
Children are blest, and powerful; their world 

lies 
More justly balanced ; partly at their feet, 
And part far from them : sweetest melodies 25 
Are those that are by distance made more 

sweet ; 
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes, 
He is a slave ; the meanest we can meet! 

Ill 

Wings have we, — and as far as we can go, 
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, 
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
Which with - the lofty sanctifies the low. 32 
Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, 

we know. 
Arc a substantial world, both pure and good : 



^ as for 



^ by means of 



Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and 
blood, 35 

Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
There find I personal themes, a plenteous 

store. 
Matter wherein right voluble I am. 
To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 41 
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. 

IV 

Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought, 45 
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or He. 
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joy- 
ous thought : 
And thus from day to day my little boat 
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50 
Blessings be with them — and eternal praise. 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure dehght by heavenly lays ! 
Oh! might my name be mmibered among 

theirs. 
Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 56 



ODE 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 

RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 

CHILDHOOD 



There was a time when meadow, grove and 

stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or da)'', 
The things which I have seen I now can see no 
more. 

II 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 10 
And lovely is the Rose ; 
The Moon doth with dehght 



392 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair; 15 

The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the 
earth. 

Ill 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 20 
As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief ; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong : 24 

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 

steep ; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains 

throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay : 

Land and sea 30 

Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou -child of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou 
happy shepherd-boy! 35 



IV 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
Ye to each other make ; I see 

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee : 
My heart is at your festival. 
My head hath its coronal, 40 

The fullness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it 
aU. 
Oh evil day! if I were sullen 
WhUe Earth herself is g,dorning. 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the children are cuUing 45 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines 
warm. 

And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50 

— But there's a tree, of many, one, 

A single field which I have looked upon. 

Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat : 55 



Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

V 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 

And Cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfiflness. 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 65 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 70 

The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 75 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 

And, even with something of a mother's mind. 
And no unworthy aim, 80 

The homely nurse doth all she can 

To make her foster-child, her inmate Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 84 

VII 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by saUies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart, 95 

And unto this he frames his song : 
Then wiU he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 100 

And with new joy and pride 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 



393 



The little Actor cons another part ; 

Filling from time to time his "humorous 

stage" 
With aU the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 105 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep no 
Thy heritage, thou eye. among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest, 115 

Which we are toiling aU our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by ; 120 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro- 
voke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
FuU soon thy Soul shall have her earthly 
freight, 126 

And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

rx 

O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 130 

That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth 

breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 134 

For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
breast : — 
Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise; 140 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realised, 145 



High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 

But for those first affections. 

Those shadowy recollections. 
Which, be they what they may, 150 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
Are yet a master Hght of all our seeing ; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 155 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeav- 
our, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor aU that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 160 

Hence in a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be. 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither. 

Can in a moment travel thither, 165 

And see the Children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters roUing evermore. 

X 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 170 

We in thought will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 

What though the radiance which was once so 
bright _ 175 

Be now forever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the 
flower ; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind; 180 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be ; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering; 184 

In the faith that looks through death. 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI 

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and 

Groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
I only have relinquished one delight 100 



394 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I love the Brooks which down their channels 

fret, 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet; 195 

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are 

won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

TO A SKY-LARK 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 

Dost thou despise the earth where cares 

aboimd? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 5 
Those quivering wings composed, that music 

stiU ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 10 
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and 
Home ! 

SONNETS 

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENE- 
TIAN REPUBLIC 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; 
And was the safeguard of the west : the worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest chQd of Liberty. 
She was a maiden city, bright and free ; 5 
No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she had seen those glories fade. 
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 10 
When her long life hath reached its final day : 
Men are we, and must grieve when even the 

Shade 
Of that which once was great is passed away. 



TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men! 
Whether the whisthng rustic tend his plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless 
den; — 

miserable chieftain ! where and when 5 
Wnt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do 

thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
Though faUen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left be- 
hind 
Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and 
skies ; 10 

There's not a breathing of the common wind 
That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
And love, and man's imconquerable mind. 

SEPTEMBER, 1802, NEAR DOVER 

Inland, within a hoUow vale, I stood ; 

And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, 

The coast of France — the coast of France 

how near ! 
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. 

1 shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 5 
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 

A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
Even so doth God protect us if we be 
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters 

roll, 10 

Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; 
Yet in themselves are nothmg ! One decree 
Spake laws to them, and said that by the 

sord 
Only, the nations shall be great and free. 



THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE 
SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND 

Two voices are there ; one is of the sea. 
One of the mountains ; each a mighty voice : 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 
There came a tyrant, and with hol}^ glee 5 
Thou fought 'st against him ; but hast vauily 

striven : 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art 

driven, 



SONNETS 



395 



Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is 

left ; lo 

For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it 

be 
That momitain floods should thunder as 

before. 
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
And neither awful voice be heard by thee. 

LONDON, 1802 

Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour : 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 5 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose soimd was like the 
sea : 10 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way. 
In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowhest duties on herself did lay. 

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802 

Earth has not an^^thing to show more fair: 

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty : 

This City now doth, like a garment, wear 

The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 5 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples He 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 

All bright and glittermg in the smokeless air. 

Never did sim more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hiU; 10 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a cahn so deep ! 

The river glide th at his own sweet will : 

Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 

And all that mighty heart is lying stiU ! 

ON THE SEA-SHORE NEAR Cj\LAIS 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free. 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 



The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : 5 
Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
A somid like thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with 

me here, 
If thou appear imtouched by solemn thought, 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 11 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 
And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 

The world is too much with us : late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 5 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping 

flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of time ; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 10 

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less 

forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



TO SLEEP 

A flock of sheep that leisiirely pass by, 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, wids and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure 

sky: 
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 5 
Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard 

trees ; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I 

lay, 
And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 1 1 

Without Thee what is aU the morning's 

wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 

health ! 



396 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



IV 

I thought of thee, my partner and my guide, 
As being past away. — Vain sympathies ! 
For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes, 
I see what was, and is, and will abide ; 
Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide ; 
The Form remains, the Fimction never dies ; 6 
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the 

wise. 
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 
The elements, must vanish; — be it so! 
Enough, if something from our hands have 
power lo 

To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go. 
Through love, through hope, and faith's tran- 
scendent dower. 
We feel that we are greater than we know. 



MOST SWEET IT IS 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 

To pace the ground, if path be there or none. 

While a fair region round the traveller lies 

Which he forbears again to look upon ; 

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 5 

The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 

Of meditation, slipping in between 

The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 

If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 

Let us break off aU commerce with the Muse : 

With Thought and Love companions of our 

way, 1 1 

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse. 
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her 

dews 
Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 

SCORN NOT THE SONNET 

Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have 

frowned. 
Mindless of its just honours ; with this key 
Shakespeare unlocked his heart : the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's 

wound ; 
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 5 
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; 
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid the C3^ress with which Dante crowned 



His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp. 
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery- 
land 10 
To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a 

damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he 

blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few! 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

(1772-1834) 

BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 
CHAP. XIV 

During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth 
and I were neighbours, our conversations 
turned frequently on the two cardinal points 
of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy 
of the reader by a faithful adherence to the 
truth of nature, and the power of giving the 
interest of novelty by the modifying colours 
of imagination. The sudden charm, which 
accidents of light and shade, which moonlight 
or sunset, diffused over a known and familiar 
landscape, appeared to represent the prac- 
ticability of combining both. These are 
the poetry of nature. The thought sug- 
gested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) 
that a series of poems might be composed of 
two sorts. In the one, the incidents and 
agents were to be, in part at least, super- 
natural; and the excellence aimed at was to 
consist in the interesting of the affections by 
the dramatic truth of such emotions as would 
naturally accompany such situations, suppos- 
ing them real. And real in this sense they 
have been to every human being who, from 
whatever source of delusion, has at any time 
believed himself under supernatural agency. 
For the second class, sulDJects were to be 
chosen from ordinary life ; the characters 
and incidents were to be such as will be found 
in every village and its vicinity where there is 
a meditative and feeling mind to seek after 
them, or to notice them when they present 
themselves. 

In this idea originated the plan of the 
"Lyrical Ballads"; in which it was agreed 
that my endeavours should be directed to 
persons and characters supernatural, or at 



BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 



397 



least romantic ; yet so as to transfer from our 
inward nature a human interest and a sem- 
blance of truth sufficient to procure for these 
shadows of imagination that willing suspen- 
sion of disbeUef for the moment, which con- 
stitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on 
the other hand, was to propose to himself 
as his object, to give the charm of novelty to 
things of every day, and to excite a feeling 
analogous to the supernatural, by awakening 
the mind's attention from the lethargy of 
custom, and directing it to the loveliness and 
the wonders of the world before us ; an inex- 
haustible treasure, but for which, in con- 
sequence of the film of familiarity and selfish 
solicitude, we have eyes, yet see not, ears that 
hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor 
understand. 

With this view I wrote the "Ancient Mari- 
ner," and was preparing, among other poems, 
the "Dark Ladie," and the "Christabel," in 
which I should have more nearly realised my 
ideal than I had done in my first attempt. 
But Mr. Wordsworth's industry had proved 
so much more successful, and the number of 
his poems so much greater, that my com- 
positions, instead of forming a balance, ap- 
peared rather an interpolation of heterogene- 
ous matter. Mr. Wordsworth added two or 
three poems written in his own character, in 
the impassioned, lofty, and sustained diction 
which is characteristic of his genius. In this 
form the "Lyrical Ballads" were published; 
and were presented by him, as an experiment, 
whether subjects, v/hich from their nature 
rejected the usual ornaments and extra- 
coUoquial style of poems in general, might 
not be so managed in the language of ordinary 
life as to produce the pleasurable interest 
which it is the peculiar business of poetry 
to impart. To the second edition he added 
a preface of considerable length ; in which, 
notwithstanding some passages of apparently 
a contrary import, he was understood to 
contend for the extension of this style to 
poetry of all kinds, and to reject as vicious 
and indefensible aU phrases and forms of 
style that were not included in what he 
(unfortunately, I think, adopting an equivocal 
expression) called the language of real life. 
From this preface, prefixed to poems in which 
it was impossible to deny the presence of orig- 
inal genius, however mistaken its direction 
might be deemed, arose the whole long-con- 
tinued controversy. For from the conjunc- 



tion of perceived power with supposed heresy 
I explain the inveteracy, and in some in- 
stances, I grieve to say, the acrimonious 
passions, with which the controversy has 
been conducted by the assailants. 

Had Mr. Wordsworth's poems been the 
silly, the childish things which they were for a 
long time described as being ; had they been 
really distinguished from the compositions 
of other poets merely by meanness of language 
and iiTanity of thought ; had they indeed con- 
tained nothing more than what is found in the 
parodies and pretended imitations of them; 
they must have sunk at once, a dead weight, 
into the slough of oblivion, and have dragged 
the preface along with them. But year after 
year increased the number of Mr. Words- 
worth's admirers. They were found, too, 
not m the lower classes of the reading public, 
but chiefly among young men of strong sensi- 
bility and meditative minds; and their ad- 
miration (inflamed perhaps in some degree 
by opposition) was distinguished by its in- 
tensity, I might almost say, by its religious 
fervour. These facts, and the intellectual 
energy of the author, which was more or less 
consciously felt, where it was outwardly and 
even boisterously denied, meeting with sen- 
timents of aversion to his opinions, and of 
alarm at their consequences, produced an 
eddy of criticism, which would of itself have 
borne up the poems by the violence with 
which it whirled them round and round. 
With many parts of this preface, m the sense 
attributed to them, and which the words un- 
doubtedly seem to authorise, I never con- 
curred; but, on the contrary, objected to 
them as erroneous in principle, and as con- 
tradictory (in appearance at least) both to 
other parts of the same preface and to the 
author's own practice in the greater number 
of the poems themselves. J\Ir. Wordsworth, 
in his recent collection, l^as, I find, degraded 
this prefatory disquisition to the end of his sec- 
ond volume, to be read or not at the reader's 
choice. But he has not, as far as I can dis- 
cover, announced any change in his poetic 
creed. At all events, considering it as the 
source of a controversy, in which I have been 
honoured more than I deserve by the fre- 
quent conjunction of my name with his, I 
think it expedient to declare, once for all, 
in what points I coincide with his opmions, 
and in what points I altogether dift'er. But 
in order to render myself mtelligiblc, I must 



398 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



previously, in as few words as possible, explain 
my ideas, first, of a poem ; and secondly, of 
poetry itself, in kind and in essence. 

The office of philosophical disquisition con- 
sists in just distinction ; while it is the privi- 
lege of the philosopher to preserve himself 
constantly aware that distinction is not 
division. In order to obtain adequate notions 
of any truth, we must intellectually separate 
its distinguishable parts; and this is the 
technical process of philosophy. But Raving 
so done, we must then restore them in our 
conceptions to the unity in which they actually 
coexist ; and this is the result of philosophy. 
A poem contains the same elements as a 
prose composition ; the difference, therefore, 
must consist in a different combination of 
them, in consequence of a different object 
proposed. According to the difference of 
the object will be the difference of the com- 
bination. It is possible that the object may 
be merely to facilitate the recollection of any 
given facts or observations by artificial 
arrangement ; and the composition wiH be 
a poem, merely because it is distinguished 
from prose by metre, or by rhyme, or by both 
conjointly. In this, the lowest sense, a man 
might attribute the name of a poem to the 
well-known enumeration of the days in the 
several months : 

"Thirty days hath September, 
April, June, and November," etc. 

and others of the same class and purpose. 
And as a particular pleasure is formd in an- 
ticipating the recurrence of sound and quanti- 
ties, all compositions that have this charm su- 
peradded, whatever be their contents, may be 
entitled poems. 

So much for the superficial form. A differ- 
ence of object and contents Supplies an addi- 
tional ground of distinction. The immediate 
purpose may be the communication of truths : 
either of truth absolute and demonstrable, as 
in works of science; or of facts experienced 
and recorded, as in history. Pleasure, and 
that of the highest and most permanent kind, 
may result from the attainment of the end; 
but it is not itself the immediate end. In 
other works the communication of pleasure 
may be the immediate purpose ; and though 
truth, either moral or intellectual, ought to be 
the ultimate end, yet this will distinguish the 
character of the author, not the class to which 



the work belongs. Blest indeed is that state 
of society, in which the immediate purpose 
would be baffled by the perversion of the 
proper ultimate end ; in which no charm of 
diction or imagery could exempt the Bathyllus 
even of an Anacreon, or the Alexis of Virgil, 
from disgust and aversion! 

But the commxmication of pleasure may be 
the immediate object of a work not metrically 
composed ; and that object may have been in 
a high degree attained, as in novels and 
romances. Would then the mere superaddi- 
tion of metre, with or without rhyme, entitle 
these to the name of poems?* The answer 
is, that nothing can permanently please, which 
does not contain in itself the reason why it is so, 
and not otherwise. If metre be superadded, 
all other parts must be made consonant with 
it. They must be such as to justify the 
perpetual and distinct attention to each part, 
which an exact correspondent recurrence of 
accent and sound are calculated to excite. 
The final definition then, so deduced, may be 
thus worded. A poem is that species of com- 
position, which is opposed to works of science, 
by proposing for its immediate object pleasure, 
not truth ; and from aU other species (having 
this object in common with it) it is discrimi- 
nated by proposing to itself such dehght from 
the whole, as is compatible with a distinct 
gratification from each component part. 

Controversy is not seldom excited in conse- 
quence of the disputants attaching each a 
different meaning to the same word ; and in 
few instances has this been more striking 
than in disputes concerning the present 
subject. If a man chooses to call every 
composition a poem, which is rhyme, or 
measure, or both, I must leave his opinion 
uncontroverted. The distinction is at least 
competent to characterise the writer's inten- 
tion. If it were subjoined, that the whole 
is likewise entertaining or affecting as a tale, 
or as a series of interesting reflections, I of 
course admit this as another fit ingredient 
of a poem, and an additional merit. But 
if the definition sought for be that of a 
legitimate poem, I answer, it must be one the 
parts of which mutually support and explain 
each other ; all in their proportion harmo- 
nising with, and supporting the purpose and 
known influences of metrical arrangement. 
The philosophic critics of all ages coincide 
with the ultimate judgment of all countries, 
in equally denying the praises of a just poem, 



BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA 



399 



on the one hand to a series of striking lines 
or distichs, each of which absorbing the whole 
attention of the reader to itself, disjoins it 
from its context, and makes it a separate 
whole, instead of a harmonising part ; and 
on the other hand, to an unsustained com- 
position, from which the reader collects 
rapidly the general result unattracted by the 
component parts. The reader should be 
carried forward, not merely or chiefly by the 
mechanical impulse of curiosity, or by a rest- 
less desire to arrive at the final solution ; but 
by the pleasurable activity of mind excited by 
the attractions of the journey itself. Like the 
motion of a serpent, which the Egyptians 
made the emblem of intellectual power; or 
like the path of soimd through the air, at 
every step he pauses and half recedes, and 
from the retrogressive movement collects the 
force which again carries him onward, Prae- 
cipltandus est liber spiriius,^ says Petronius 
Arbiter most happily. The epithet, liber, 
here balances the preceding verb : and it is 
not easy to conceive more meaning condensed 
in fewer words. 

But if this should be admitted as a satisfac- 
tory character of a poem, we have still to seek 
for a definition of poetry. The writings of 
Plato, and Bishop Taylor, and the Theoria 
Sacra of Burnet, furnish undeniable proofs 
that poetry of the highest kind may exist with- 
out metre, and even without the contra-dis- 
tinguishing objects of a poem. The first 
chapter of Isaiah (indeed a very large propor- 
tion of the whole book) is poetry in the most 
emphatic sense; yet it would be not less 
irrational than strange to assert, that pleasure, 
and not truth, was the immediate object of the 
prophet. In short, whatever specific import 
we attach to the word poetry, there will be 
found involved in it, as a necessary conse- 
quence, that a poem of any length neither 
can be, nor ought to be, all poetry. Yet if a 
harmonious whole is to be produced, the re- 
maining parts must be preserved in keeping 
with the poetry ; and this can be no otherwise 
effected than by such a studied selection and 
artificial arrangement as wiU partake of one, 
though not a peculiar, property of poetry. 
And this again can be no other than the 
property of exciting a more continuous and 
equal attention than the language of prose 
aims at, whether colloquial or written. 



My own conclusions on the nature of poetry, 
in the strictest use of the word, have been in 
part anticipated in the preceding disquisition 
on the fancy and imagination. What is 
poetry? is so nearly the same question with, 
what is a poet? that the answer to the one is 
involved in the solution of the other. For it 
is a distinction resultmg from the poetic 
genius itself, which sustains and modifies 
the images, thoughts, and emotions of the 
poet's own mind. The poet, described in ideal 
perfection, brings the whole soul of man into 
activity, with the subordination of its faculties 
to each other, according to their relative worth 
and dignity. He diffuses a tone and spirit 
of unity, that blends, and (as it were) fuses, 
each into each, by that synthetic and magical 
power, to which we have exclusively appro- 
priated the name of imagination. This 
power, first put in action by the will and 
understanding, and retained under their 
irremissive,^ though gentle and unnoticed, con- 
trol {laxis ejferiur habenis ^) reveals itself in the 
balance or reconciliation of opposite or discor- 
dant qualities : of sameness, with difference ; 
of the general, mth the concrete; the idea, 
with the image ; the individual, with the repre- 
sentative; the sense of novelty and fresh- 
ness, with old and familiar objects : a more 
than usual state of emotion, with more than 
usual order ; judgment ever awake and steady 
self-possession, with enthusiasm and feeling 
profomid or vehement ; and wloile it blends 
and harmonises the natural and the artificial, 
still subordinates art to nature ; the manner 
to the matter ; and our admiration of the 
poet to our sympathy with the poetry. 

KUBLA KHAN: OR, A VISION IN A 
DREAM 

A FRAGMENT 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasine-dome decree : 

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 

Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a simless sea. s 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round : 
And there were gardens bright with sinuous 
riUs, 



^ The free spirit must be urged headlong. ^ unremitting ^ He is borne with loosened reins. 



4O0 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, lo 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which 

slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil 

seething, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breath- 
ing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced : 
Amid whose sv/ift half-intermitted burst 20 
Huge fragments vaulted like reboimding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 30 



The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves ; 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 35 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw : 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 
. And on her dulcimer she play'd, 40 

Singing of Moimt Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song. 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me, 
That with music loud and long, 45 

I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there, — 
And all should cry, Beware! Beware! — 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 50 

Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



An ancient 
Mariner 
meeteth three 
gallants bid- 
den to a wed- 
ding-feast, 
and detaineth 
one. 



The wedding- 
guest is spell- 
bound by the 
eye of the old 
seafaring 
man, and con- 
strained to 
hear his tale. 



m SEVEN PARTS 
Part I 

It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 

The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
"There was a ship," quoth he. 
"Hold off ! unhand me, grey -beard loon \" 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The wedding-guest stood stfll. 
And listens like a three years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear ; 



IS 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



401 



And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

"The ship was cheer 'd, the harbour clear'd, 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 



The sun came up upon the left. 
Out of the sea came he ! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — " 

The wedding-guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 



25 



30 



The Mariner 
tells how the 
ship sailed 
southward 
with a good 
wind and fair 
weather, till 
it reached the 
Line. 



The bride hath paced into the hall, 
Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The wedding-guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man. 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



35 



40 



The wedding- 
guest heareth 
the bridal 
music ; but the 
Alariner con- 
tinueth his 
tale. 



"And now the storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 



The ship 
drawn by a 
storm toward 
the south 
pole. 



With sloping masts and dipping prow, 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe. 

And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast. 

And southward aye we fled. 



45 



SO 



And now there came both mist and snow. 
And it grew wondrous cold ; 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald ; 



And through the drifts the snowy clifts 55 

Did send a dismal sheen : 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 

The ice was all between. 

The ice was here, the ice was there. 
The ice was all around : 60 

It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd. 
Like noises in a swound ! 



The land of 
ice, and of 
fearful sounds, 
where no 
li\ing thing 
was to be 
seen. 



402 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



Till a great 
sea-bird, called 
the Albatross, 
came through 
the snow-fog, 
and was 
received with 
great joy and 
hospitality. 



At length did cross an Albatross : 
Thorough the fog it came : 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hail'd it in God's name. 



It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it fiew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steer'd us through ! 



65 



70 



And lo ! the 
Albatross 
proveth a bird 
of good omen, 
and followeth 
the ship as it 
returned 
northward, 
through fog 
and floating 



And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 



In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perch'd for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 

GUmmer'd the white moon-shine." 



75 



The ancient 
Mariner 
inhospitably 
killeth the 
pious bird of 
good omen. 



" God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 80 

Why look'st thou so.?" — "With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross ! 



Part II 



"The sun now rose upon the right: 
Out of the sea came he, 
StiU hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 



85 



And the good south wind stUl blew behind. 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day, for food or play. 
Came to the mariners' hoUo ! 



90 



His shipmates 
cry out against 
the ancient 
Mariner, for 
killing the 
bird of good 
luck. 

But when the 
fog cleared 
off, they jus- 
tify the same, 
and thus 
make them- 
selves accom- 
plices in the 
crime. 



And I had done a heUish thuig, 

And it would work 'em woe ; 

For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay 

That made the breeze to blow ! 



Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious sun uprist : 

Then all averr'd, I had kUl'd the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist. 



95 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



403 



The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow follow 'd free : 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody sun, at noon. 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 



105 



The fair 
breeze con- 
tinues ; the 
ship enters 
the Pacific 
Ocean, and 
sails north- 
ward, even till 
it reaches the 
Line. 

The ship hath 
been suddenly 
becalmed, 



Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



"S 



Water, water, every where, 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, every where, 
Nor any drop to drink. 



And the 
Albatross 
begins to be 
avenged. 



The very deep did rot : Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, sHmy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 



125 



About, about, in reel and rout. 

The death-fires danced at night ; 

The water, like a witch's oils, 

Burnt green, and blue and white. 130 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so : 
Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us, 
From the land of mist and snow. 

And every tongue, through utter drought, 135 

Was wither'd at the root ; 

We could not speak, no more than if 

We had been choked with soot. 

Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. 

numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or 



A spirit had 
followed 
them ; one of 
the invisible 
inhabitants of 
this planet, 
neither de- 
parted souls 
nor angels; 
concerning 
whom the 
learned Jew, 
Josephus, and 
the Platonic 

They are very 

more. 



Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



140 



the ancient Mariner: 
his neck. 



The shipmates, 
in their sore 
distress, would 
fain throw the 
whole guilt on 



in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round 



404 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



Part III 



The ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth a sign 
in the element 
afar off. 



At its nearer 
approach, it 
seemeth him 
to be a ship ; 
and at a dear 
ransom he 
freeth his 
speech from 
the bonds of 
thirst. 

A flash of joy ; 



"There pass'd a weary time. Each throat 

Was parch'd, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time ! A weary time ! 145 

How glazed each weary eye ! 

When looking westward I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

At first it seem'd a little speck, 

And then it seem'd a mist : 150 

It moved and moved, and took at last 

A certain shape, I wist.^ 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 

And still it near'd and near'd : 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 

It plunged and tack'd and veer'd. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could nor laugh nor wail ; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 

I bit rny arm, I suck'd the blood, 160 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

Agape they heard me call : 

Gramercy ! ^ they for joy did grin. 

And all at once their breath drew in, 165 

As ^ they were drinking all. 



And horror 
follows. For 
can it be a 
ship that 
comes onward 
without wind 
or tide? 



' See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
Hither, to work us weal. 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel ! ' 

The western wave was all a-flame : 

The day was well nigh done : 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright sun ; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Betwixt us and the sun. 



170 



175 



It seemeth 
him but the 
skeleton of a 
ship. 



And straight the sun was fleck'd with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
As if through a dtmgeon grate he peer'd, 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the sun. 
Like restless gossameres ? ^ 



^ I perceived ^ Many thanks ! 
the air in clear weather 



^ as if ^ fine cobwebs that float in 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



405 



Are those her ribs through which the sun 185 

Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that Woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
Is Death that woman's mate? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190 

Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came, 195 

And the twain were casting dice ; 

* The game is done ! I've, I've won ! ' 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : 

At one stride comes the dark ; 200 

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 

Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We Usten'd and look'd sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seem'd to sip ! 205 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleam 'd white ; 

From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned moon, with one bright star 210 

Within the nether tip. 



And its ribs 
are seen as 
bars on the 
face of the 
setting sun. 
The spectre- 
woman and 
her death- 
mate, and no 
other on 
board the 
skeleton ship. 

Like vessel, 
like crew ! 

Death, and 
Life-in-Death, 
have diced for 
the ship's crew, 
and she (the 
latter) winneth 
the ancient 
Mariner. 

No twilight 
within the 
courts of the 



At the rising 
of the moon. 



One after one, by the star-dogg'd moon. 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. 



215 



One after 
another, 



Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropp'd down one by one. 



His shipmates 
drop down 
dead. 



The souls did from their bodies fly. 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it pass'd me by, 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow 1" 



But Life-in- 
Death begins 
her work on 
the ancient 
Mariner. • 



Part IV 



"I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 

As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 



225 



The wedding- 
guest feareth 
that a spirit is 
talking to him. 



4o6 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



But the an- 
cient Mariner 
assureth iiim 
of iiis bodily 
life, and pro- 
ceedeth to 
relate his 
horrible 
penance. 

He despiseth 
the creatures 
of the calm, 



And envieth 
that they 
should live, 
and so many 
lie dead. 



But the curse 
liveth for him 
in the eye of 
the dead men. 



In his loneli 
ness and 
fixedness he 
yearneth 
towards the 
journeying 
moon, and the 



I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 

And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 

"Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest ! 230 

This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide wide sea ! 

And never a saint took pity on 

My soul in agony. 235 

The many men, so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie : 

And a thousand thousand sHmy things 

Lived on ; and so did I. 

I look'd upon the rotting sea, 240 

And drew my eyes away ; 

I look'd upon the rotting deck, 

And there the dead men lay. 

I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray ; 

But or ever a prayer had gusht, 245 

A wicked whisper came, and made 

My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close. 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 251 

And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 

Nor rot nor reek did they : 

The look with which they look'd on me 255 

Had never pass'd away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh-! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 260 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 



The moving moon went up the sky, 

And no where did abide : 

Softly she was going up, 265 

And a star or two beside — 
•stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and everywhere the blue sky 
belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country, and 
their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are 
certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main. 

Like April hoar-frost spread ; 

But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 

The charmed water burnt alway 270 

A still and awful red. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



407 



Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watch 'd the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white, 

And when they rear'd, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 



27s 



By the light of 
the moon he 
beholdcth 
God's crea- 
tures of the 
great calm. 



Within the shadow of the ship 

I watch'd their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 

They coil'd and swam ; and every track 280 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

O happy living things ! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gush'd from my heart, 

And I bless'd them unaware ! 285 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I bless'd them unaware. 



Their beauty 
and their 
happiness. 

He blesseth 
them in his 
heart. 



The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 



290 



The spell 
begins to 
break. 



Part V 



"Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Belov'd from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That sUd into my soul. 



295 



The siUy buckets on the deck. 

That had so long remain'd, 

I dreamt that they were fiU'd with dew; 

And when I awoke, it rain'd. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
And still my body drank. 



300 



By grace of 
the holy 
Mother, the 
ancient Mar- 
iner is re- 
freshed with 
rain. 



I moved, and could not feel my Hmbs ; 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost. 



30s 



And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
It did not come anear ; 
But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere.^ 

^dry 



310 



He heareth 
sounds and 
seeth strange 
sights and 
commotions in 
the sky and the 
element. 



4o8 



SAMUEL TAYLOR . COLERIDGE 



The bodies of 
the ship's 
crew are in- 
spirited, and 
the ship 
moves on ; 



But not by 
the souls of 
the men, nor 
by demons of 
earth or mid- 
dle air, but 
by a blessed 
troop of an- 
gelic spirits, 
sent down by 
the invoca- 
tion of the 
guardian 
saint. 



The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen/ 
To and fro they were hurried about ; 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 



315 



325 



330 



And the coming wind did roar more loud. 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud ; 
The moon was at its edge. 321 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The moon was at its side : 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 
A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reach'd the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 
Beneath the lightning and the moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on ; 

Yet never a breeze up-blew ; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 

Where they were wont to do : 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee : 
The body and I puU'd at one rope, 
But he said nought to me." 

"1 fear thee, ancient Mariner !" 
"Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain. 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest : 

For when it dawn'd — they dropp'd their arms. 
And cluster'd round the mast ; 351 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 
And from their bodies pass'd. 



335 



340 



345 



Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds come back again, 
Now mix'd, now one by one. 



355 



■ beautiful 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



409 



Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 

I heard the skylark sing ; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 360 

How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 

With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute ; 

And now it is an angel's song, 365 

That makes the heavens be mute. 



It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 370 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sail'd on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe : 

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 375 

Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep. 

From the land of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid ; and it was he 

That made the ship to go. 380 

The sails at noon left off their time, 

And the ship stood still also. 

The sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fix'd her to the ocean ; 

But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385 

With a short imeasy motion — ■ 

Backwards and forwards half her length, 

With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 

She made a sudden bound : 390 

It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare ; 

But ere my living fife return'd, 395 

I heard, and in my soul discern'd 

Two voices in the air. 

' Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' is this the man ? 

By Him who died on cross, 

With his cruel bow he laid fuU low 400 

The harmless Albatross. 

'The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 



The lonesome 
spirit from 
the south- 
pole carries 
on the ship as 
far as the 
Line, in obe- 
dience to the 
angehc troop, 
but still re- 
quireth ven- 
geance. 



The Polar 
Spirit' s fel- 
low demons, 
the invisible 
inhabitants of 
the element, 
take part in 
his wrong; and 
two of them 
relate, one to 
the other, that 
penance long 
and heavy for 
the ancient 
Mariner hath 
been accorded 
to the Polar 
Spirit, who re- 
turneth south- 
ward. 



4IO 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do.' 



405 



Part VI 

First Voice 

'But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 410 

Thy soft response renewing — 

What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 

What is the ocean doing ? ' 

Second Voice 

' Still as a slave before his lord, 

The ocean hath no blast ; 415 

His great bright eye most sUently 

Up to the moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go ; 

For she guides him, smooth or grim. 

See, brother, see ! how graciously 420 

She looketh down on him.' 



The Mariner 
hath been cast 
into a trance; 
for the angeUc 
power causeth 
the vessel to 
drive north- 
ward, faster 
than human 
life could en- 
dure. 



First Voice 

'But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? ' 

Second Voice 

' The air is cut away before, 

And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 

Or we shall be belated : 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 



42 s 



The super- 
natural mo- 
tion is 
retarded ; 
the Mariner 
awakes, and 
his penance 
begins anew. 



I woke, and we were sailing on, 430 

As in a gentle weather : 

'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 
The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck, 

For a charn el-dungeon fitter : 435 

All fix'd on me their stony eyes, 

That in the moon did ghtter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
Had never pass'd away : 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 440 

Nor turn them up to pray. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



4" 



And now this spell was snapt : once more 

I view'd the ocean green, 

And look'd far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 445 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 

Doth walk in fear and dread. 

And having once turn'd round, walks on, 

And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 450 

Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 

Nor sound nor motion made : 

Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 455 

It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 460 

Yet she sail'd softly too : 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — ■ 

On me alone it blew. 



The curse is 

finally 

expiated, 



Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 

The lighthouse top I see ? 465 

Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 

Is this mme own countree ? 

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. 

And I with sobs did pray — 

'0 let me be awake, my God ! 470 

Or let me sleep alway.' 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass. 

So smoothly it was strewn ! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay. 

And the shadow of the moon. 475 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock: 
The moonlight steep'd in sUentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light, 480 

Till rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were, 

In crimson colours came. 

A little distance from the prow 

Those crimson shadows were : 485 

I turn'd my eyes upon the deck — 

Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 



And the an- 
cient Mariner 
beholdeth his 
native 
country. 



The angelic 
spirits leave 
the dead 
bodies. 



And appear 
in their own 
forms of light. 



412 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man. 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light : 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turn'd perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The pilot, and the pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



490 



495 



500 



505 



510 



The Hermit 
of the Wood 



Approacheth 
the ship with 
wonder. 



Part VII 

"This Hermit good lives in that wood 

Which slopes down to the sea. 515 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 

He loves to talk with marineres 

That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 

He hath a cushion plump : 520 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat near'd : I heard them talk, 

' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 

Where are those Ughts so many and fair, 525 

That signal made but now ? ' 

' Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said — 

'And they answer'd not our cheer ! 

The planks look warp'd ! and see those sails. 

How thin they are and sere ! 530 

I never saw aught Hke to them, 

Unless perchance it were 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



413 



Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 

My forest-brook along : 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535 

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below 

That eats the she-wolf's young.' 

'Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 

(The pilot made reply) 

I am a-fear'd' — ■ 'Push on, push on !' 540 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirr'd ; 

The boat came close beneath the ship, 

And straight a sound was heard. 545 

Under the water it rumbled on. 
Still louder and more dread : 
It reach'd the ship, it split the bay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadfiol sound, 550 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drown 'd, 

My body lay afloat ; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 555 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship. 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 



The ship sud- 
denly sinketh. 



The ancient 
Mariner is 
saved in the 
pilot's boat. 



I moved my lips — the pilot shriek'd. 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes. 
And pray'd where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the pilot's boy. 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

'Ha ! ha !' quoth he, 'fuU plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row.' 

And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land ! 

The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, 

And scarcely he could stand. 

'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !' 
The Hermit cross'd his brow. 
'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou ? ' 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench 'd 
With a woeful agony, 



560 



565 



570 



575 



The ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly 
entreateth 
the Hermit to 
shrieve him ; 
and the pen- 
ance of life 
falls on him. 



414 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



And ever and 
anon through- 
out his future 
life an agony 
constraineth 
him to travel 
from land to 
land ; 



And to teach, 
by his own 

example, 
love and 
reverence to 
all things that 
God made 
and loveth. 



Which forced me to begin my tale : 580 

And then it left me free. 

Since then at an uncertain hour, 

That agony returns; 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me bums. 585 

I pass, like night, from land to land : 

I have strange power of speech ; 

That moment that his face I see, 

I know tlje man that must hear me : 

To him my tale I teach. 590 

What loud uproar bursts from that door : 

The wedding-guests are there ; 

But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are : 

And hark the little vesper bell, 595 

Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 

Alone on a wide wide sea : 

So lonely 'twas, that God himself 

Scarce seemed there to be. 600 

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me. 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 

To walk together to the kirk, 605 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends. 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 610 

To thee, thou Wedding- Guest ! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small ; 615 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 

Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone ; and now the Wedding-Guest 620 

Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunn'd, 

And is of sense forlorn : 

A sadder and a wiser man 

He rose the morrow morn. 625 



CHRISTABEL 



415 



CHRISTABEL 



From PART I 



'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
And the owls have awaken'd the crowing 

cock; 
Tu-whit — Tu-whoo ! 
And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
How drowsily it crew. 5 

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich. 
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 
From her kennel beneath the rock 
She maketh answer to the clock, 9 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; 
Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 
Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chiUy and dark ? 

The night is chilly, but not dark. 15 

The thui grey cloud is spread on high, 

It covers but not hides the sky. 

The moon is behind, and at the full ; 

And yet she looks both small and dull. 

The night is chill, the cloud is grey : 20 

'Tis a month before the month of May, 

And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well, 

What makes her in the wood so late, 25 

A furlong from the castle gate? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood wiU. pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 30 

She stole along, she nothing spoke. 

The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 

j\nd naught was green upon the oak, 

But moss and rarest mistletoe : 

She kxieels beneath the huge oak tree, 35 

And in sUence prayeth she. 



The lady sprang up suddenly, 

The lovely lady, Christabel ! 

It moan'd as near as near can be, 

But what it is she cannot tell. — 

On the other side it seems to be, 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 



The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? 
There is not wind enough in the air 



40 



45 



To move away the ringlet curl 

From the lovely lady's cheek — 

There is not wind enough to twirl 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 

That dances as often as dance it can, 50 

Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 

Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 

She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 55 

And stole to the other side of the oak. 

What sees she there ? 
There she sees a damsel bright, 
Drest in a silken robe of white. 
That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 60 
The neck that made that white robe wan. 
Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
Her blue-vein'd feet imsandal'd were ; 
And wildly glitter'd here and there 
The gems entangled in her hair. 65 

I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 
A lady so richly clad as she — 
Beautiful exceedingly ! 



"Mary mother, save me now!" 

Said Christabel, "and who art thou?" 



70 



The lady strange made answer meet, 

And her voice was faint and sweet : — 

"Have pity on my sore distress, 

I scarce can speak for weariness : 

Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! " 75 

Said Christabel, "How earnest thou here?" 

And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet 

Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 

"My sire is of a noble line, 

And my name is Geraldine : So 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 

■Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 

They choked my cries with force and fright, 

And tied me on a palfrey white. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 85 

And they rode furiously behind. 

They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white: 

And once we cross'd the shade of night. 

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 

I have no thought what men they be ; 

Nor do I know how long it is 

(For I have lain entranced, I wis) 

Since one. the tallest of the five. 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 

Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke : 

He placed me underneath this oak ; 



90 



95 



4i6 



FRANCIS JEFFREY 



He swore they would return with haste ; 
Whither they went I -cannot tell — 
I thought I heard, some minutes past, 
Sounds as of a castle bell. 
Stretch forth thy hand," thus ended she, 
"And help a wretched maid to flee." 



ROBERT SOUTHEY (i 774-1843) 

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE 

A well there is in the West country, 
And a clearer one never was seen ; 

There is not a wife in the West country 
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 4 

An oak and an elm tree stand beside. 
And behind does an ash-tree grow, 

And a willow from the bank above 

Droops to the water below. 8 

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; 

Joyfully he drew nigh, 
For from cock-crow he had been travelling. 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 1 2 

He drank of the water so cool and clear, 

For thirsty and hot was he, 
And he sat down upon the bank, 

Under the wiUow-tree. 16 

There came a man from the house hard by 

At the well to- fill his pail. 
On the well-side he rested it. 

And he bade the stranger haU. 20 

" Now art thou a bachelor, stranger? ' ' quoth he, 

"For an if thou hast a wife, 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this 
day 

That ever thou didst in thy life. 24 

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast 

Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
For an if she have, I'll venture my life 

She has drunk of the Well of St.'Keyne." 28 

"I have left a good woman who never was 
here," 
The stranger he made reply ; 
"But that my draught should be the better for 
that, 
I pray you answer me why." 32 



"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many 
a time 

Drank of this crystal well, 
And before the Angel summoned her 

She laid on the water a spell. 36 

"If the Husband of this gifted well 

Shall drink before his Wife, 
A happy man thenceforth is he. 

For he shall be Master for life. 40 

"But if the Wife should drink of it first, 

God help the Husband then !" 
The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, 

And drank of the waters again. 44 

"You drank of the weU, I warrant, betimes?" 

He to the Cornish-man said. 
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger 
spake, 

And sheepishly shook his head. 48 

"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, 

And left my wife in the porch. 
But i' faith, she had been wiser than me. 

For she took a bottle to Church." 

FRANCIS JEFFREY (i 773-1850) 

"THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE" 

This, we think, has the merit of being the 
very worst poem we ever saw imprinted in a 
quarto volume ; and though it was scarcely 
to be expected, we confess, that Mr. Words- 
worth, with aU his ambition, should so soon 
have attained to that distinction, the wonder 
may perhaps be diminished when we state, 
that it seems to us to consist of a happy union 
of all the faults, without any of the beauties, 
which belong to his school of poetry. It is 
just such a work, in short, as some wicked 
enemy of that school might be supposed to 
have devised, on purpose to make it ridicu- 
lous ; and when we first took it up, we could 
not help suspecting that some ill-natured 
critic had actually taken this harsh method of 
instructing Mr. Wordsworth, by example, 
in the nature of those errors, against which 
our precepts had been so often directed in 
vain. We had not gone far, however, till 
we felt intimately that nothing in the nature 
of a joke could be so insupportably duU ; — 
and that this must be the work of one who 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 



417 



earnestly believed it to be a pattern of pa- 
thetic simplicity, and gave it out as such to the 
admiration of all intelligent readers. In this 
point of view, the work may be regarded as 
curious at least, if not in some degree in- 
teresting; and, at all events, it must be 
instructive to be made aware of the excesses 
into which superior understandings may be 
betrayed, by long self-indulgence, and the 
strange extravagances into which they may 
run, when under the influence of that intoxica- 
tion which is produced by unrestrained ad- 
miration of themselves. This poetical in- 
toxication, indeed, to pursue the figure a 
little farther, seems capable of assuming as 
many forms as the vulgar one which arises 
from wine; and it appears to require as 
delicate a management to make a man a 
good poet by the help of the one, as to make 
him a good companion by means of the other. 
In both cases a little mistake as to the dose 
or the quality of the inspiring fluid may 
make him absolutely outrageous, or luU 
him over into the most profound stupidity, 
instead of brightening up the hidden stores 
of his genius: and truly we are concerned 
to sa}^, that Mr. Wordsworth seems hitherto 
to have been unlucky in the choice of his 
hqudr — or of his bottle-holder. In some 
of his odes and ethic exhortations, he was 
exposed to the public in a state of incoherent 
rapture and glorious dehrium, to which we 
think we have seen a parallel among the 
humbler lovers of jollity. In the Lyrical Bal- 
lads, he was exhibited, on the whole, in a vein 
of very pretty deliration ; but in. the poem 
before us, he appears in a state of low and 
maudlin imbecility, which would not have 
misbecome Master Silence^ himself, in the close 
of a social day. Whether this unhappy result 
is to be ascribed to any adulteration of his 
Castalian- cups, or to the unlucky choice of his 
company over them, we cannot presume to 
say. It may be that he has dashed his 
Hippocrene ^ with too large an infusion of lake^ 
water, or assisted its operation too exclusively 
by the study of the ancient historical ballads 
of "the north countrie." That there are 
palpable imitations of the style and manner 

^ Cf. Shakespeare's Henry IV, Part II. ^ from 
the Castalian fountain on Mt. Parnassus, sacred 
to the ^Muses ^ a fountain on Mt. Helicon, sacred 
to the Muses ■* a jesting allusion to Wordsworth's 
residence in the Lake district 



of those venerable compositions in the work 
before us, is indeed undeniable; but it 
unfortunately happens, that while the 
hobbling versification, the mean diction, 
and flat stupidity of these models are very 
exactly copied, and even improved upon, in 
this imitation, their rude energy, manly 
simplicity, and occasional felicity of expres- 
sion, have totally disappeared; and, instead 
of them, a large allowance of the author's 
own metaphysical sensibility, and mystical 
wordiness, is forced into an unnatural com- 
bination with the borrowed beauties which 
have just been mentioned. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) 

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 
From CANTO VI 
The Lay of Rosabelle 

O listen, listen, ladies gay ! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle ; 4 

"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay, 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth "■ to-day. 8 

"The blackening wave is edged with white: 
To inch - and rock the sea-mev/ s fly ; 

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 
Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. 1 2 

"Last night the gifted Seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round ladye ga}^ ; 

Then stay thee. Fair, in Ravensheuch : 

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" — 16 

" 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball. 

But that my ladye-mother there 

Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 20 

"'Tis not because the ring the}^ ride, 
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 

But that my sire the wine will chide, 

If 'tis not fiU'd by Rosabelle." — 24 



ibay 



island 



4i8 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 



O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 

^Twas broader than the watch-fire's Hght, 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 28 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
It ruddied all the copse- wood glen ; 

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
And seen from cavern'd Hawthomden. 32 

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud. 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncofiin'd lie, 

Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 

Sheathed in his iron panoply. 36 

Seem'd aU on fire, within, around. 

Deep sacristy and altar's pale,^ 
Shone every pUlar foUage-bound, 

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 40 

Blazed battlement and pinnBt^ high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — 

So stiU they blaze, when fate is nigh 

The lordly line of high St. Clair. 44 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold — 

But the sea holds lovely RosabeUe ! 48 

And each St. Clair was buried there, 
With candle, with book, and with knell ; 

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds 
sung. 
The dirge of lovely Rosabella. 5 2 

CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME 

From MARMION, INTRODUCTION TO 
CANTO VI 

Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill ; 

But let it whistle as it will, 

We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 

Each age has deemed the new-born year 

The fittest time for festal cheer : 

Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane 

At lol ^ more deep the mead did drain ; 

High on the beach his galleys drew, 

And feasted all his pirate crew ; 

Then in his low and pine-built hall, 10 

Where shields and axes decked the wall, 

' enclosure ^ pinnacle ^ Yule, the heathen 
Christmas 



They gorged upon the half-dressed steer ; 

Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 

While round, in brutal jest, were thrown 

The half -gnawed rib and marrow-bone ; 

Or listened all, in grim delight. 

While Scalds^ yelled out the joys of fight. 

Then forth in frenzy would they hie, 

While wildly-loose their red locks fly ; 

And, dancing roimd the blazing pile, 20 

They make such barbarous mirth the while, 

As best might to the mind recall 

The boisterous joys of Odin's haU.^ 

And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year its course had rolled 
And brought blithe Christmas back again 
With all its hospitable train. 
Domestic and rehgious rite 
Gave honour to the holy night : 
On Christmas eve the beUs were rung ; 30 
On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; 
That only night, in aU the year. 
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.^ 
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; 
The haU was dressed with holly green ; 
Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
To gather in the mistletoe. 
Then opened wide the baron's haU 
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
Power laid his rod of rule aside; 40 

And Ceremony doffed her pride. 
The heir, with roses in his shoes. 
That night might vUlage partner choose ; 
The lord, underogating,^ share 
The vulgar game of "post and pair." 
AU hailed with uncontrolled dehght. 
And general voice, the happy night 
That to the cottage, as the crown. 
Brought tidings of salvation down. 

The fire, with weU-dried logs suppHed, 50 
Went roarmg up the chimney wide ; 
The huge hall-table's oaken face. 
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace, 
Bore then upon its massive board 
No mark to part the squire and lord. 
Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
By old blue-coated serving-man ; 
Then the grim boar's-head frowned on high 
Crested with bays and rosemary. 
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell 60 

How, when, and where the monster fell ; 

^ poets ^ in the Other-world, where heroes 
fought and feasted forever ^ The Mass is not 
celebrated at night except at Christmas. "• with- 
out loss of dignity 



FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU 



419 



What dogs before his death he tore, 

And all the baiting of the boar. 

The wassail round, in good brown bowls, 

Garnished with ribbons, bUthely trowls. 

There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by _ 

Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; 

Nor failed old Scotland to produce, 

At such high-tide, her savoury goose. 

Then came the merry maskers in, 70 

And carols roared with blithesome din ; 

If unmelodious was the song, 

It was a hearty note, and strong. 

Who Hsts may in their mumming see 

Traces of ancient mystery ; ^ 

White skirts supphed the masquerade, 

And smutted cheeks the visors made : 

But, O ! what maskers r;chly dight 

Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 

England was merry England, when 80 

Old Christmas brought his sports again. 

'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale ; 

'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; 

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 

The poor man's heart through half the year. 

SOLDIER, REST ! THY WARFARE O'ER 

From THE LADY OF THE LAKE 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; 
Dream of battled fields no more. 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall. 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
Fairy strains of music fall. 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
Dream of fighting fields no more ; 10 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, 
Trump nor pibroch summon here 

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. 
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 

At the daybreak from the fallow, 
And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the sedgy shallow, 20 

Ruder sounds shall none be near, 
Guards nor warders challenge here ; 
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, 
Shouting clans or sqxiadrons stamping. 

^ religious drama 



Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 

While our slumbrous speUs assail ye, 
Dream not, with the rising sun, 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 30 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; 
Think not of the rising sun, 
For, at dawning to assail ye. 
Here no bugles soimd reveille. 



FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU 

From THE LADY OF THE LAKE 

Canto V 

VIII 

"Enough, I am by promise tied 

To match me with this nian of pride : 

Twice have I sought Clan-.\lpine's glen 

In peace ; but when I come again, 

I come with banner, brand, and bow, 

As leader seeks his mortal foe. 

For lovelorn swain, in lady's bower. 

Ne'er panted for the appointed hour. 

As I, until before me stand 25 

This rebel Chieftain and his band." 

EX 

"Have, then, thy wish!" — He whistled 

shrill. 
And he was answered from the hiU ; 
Wild as the scream of the curlew, 
From crag to crag the signal flew. 
Instant, through copse and heath, arose 
Bonnets and spears and bended bows; 
On right, on left, above, below. 
Sprung up at once the lurkingfoe ; 
From shingles grey their lances start. 
The bracken bush sends forth the dart, 10 
The rvishes and the willow wand 
Are bristling into axe and brand, 
And every tuft of broom gives life 
To plaided warrior armed for strife. 
That whistle garrisoned the glen 
At once with full five hundred men, 
As if the yawning hill to heaven 
A subterranean host had given. 
Watching their leader's beck and will, 
Ail silent there they stood, and still. 20 



420 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 



Like the loose crags whose threatening mass 
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, 
As if an infant's touch could urge 
Their headlong passage down the verge, . 
With step and weapon forward flung, 
Upon the mountain-side they hung. 
The Mountaineer cast glance of pride 
Along Benledi's^ living side, 
Then fixed his eye and sable brow 
Full on Fitz-James:^ "How say'st thou 
now? 30 

These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true ; 
And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu ! " ^ 

X 

Fitz- James was brave ; — though to his heart 

The life-blood thrUled with sudden start, 

He manned himself with dauntless air. 

Returned the Chief his haughty stare. 

His back against a rock he bore. 

And firmly placed his foot before : — 

" Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 

From its firm base as soon as I." 

Sir Roderick marked, — and in his eyes 

Respect was mingled with surprise, 10 

And the stern joy which warriors feel 

In foeman worthy of their steel. 

Short space he stood, — then waved his hand : 

Down sunk the disappearing band; 

Each warrior vanished where he stood. 

In broom or bracken, heath or wood : 

Sunk brand and spear, and bended bow, 

In osiers pale and copses low : 

It seemed as if their mother Earth 

Had swallowed up her warhke birth. 20 

The wind's last breath had tossed in air 

Pennon and plaid and plumage fair, — 

The next but swept a lone hillside, 

Where heath and fern were waving wide; 

The sun's last glance was glinted back, 

From spear and glaive, "* from targe ^ and 

jack,^ — 
The next, all unreflected, shone 
On bracken green, and cold grey stone. 

XI 

Fitz-James looked round, — yet scarce 

believed 
The witness that his sight received ; 

^ a high mountain, north of Loch Vennachar 
^ James V, in disguise ^ Black Roderick, chief of 
Clan-Alpine ^ sword ^ small shield ^ leather jacket 



Such apparition well might seem 

Delusion of a dreadful dream. 

Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, 

And to his look the Chief replied : 

" Fear naught — nay, that I need not say — 

But — doubt not aught from mine array. 

Thou art my guest ; — I pledged my word 

As far as Coilantogle ford : ^ 10 

Nor would I call a clansman's brand 

For aid against one valiant hand, 

Though on our strife lay every vale 

Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. 

So move we on ; — I only meant 

To show the reed on which you leant. 

Deeming this path you might pursue 

Without a pass from Roderick Dhu." 

They moved ; — I sai4 Fitz-James was brave, 

As ever knight that belted glaive ; ' 20 

Yet dare not say that now his blood 

Kept on its wont and tempered flood, 

As, following Roderick's stride, he drew 

That seeming lonesome pathway thro;agh, 

Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife 

With lances, that, to take his life. 

Waited but signal from a guide. 

So late dishonoured and defied. 

Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round 

The vanished guardians of the ground, 30 

And still, from copse and heather deep, 

Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep, 

And in the plover's shrilly strain 

The signal whistle heard again. 

Nor breathed he free till far behind 

The pass was left ; for then they wind 

Along a wide and level green. 

Where neither tree nor tuft was seen, 

Nor rush nor bush of broom was near, 

To hide a bonnet or a spear. 40 

XII 

The Chief in silence strode before, 

And reached that torrent's sounding shore, 

Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,^ 

From Vennachar in silver breaks. 

Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines 

On Bochastle^ the mouldering lines, 

Where R.ome, the Empress of the world, 

Of yore her eagle wings unfurled. 

And here his course the Chieftain stayed, 

Threw down his target and his plaid, 10 

^ at the east end of Loch Vennachar " Lochs 
Katrine, Achray, and Vennachar ^ a moor in 
which are the ruins of a Roman camp 



FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU 



421 



And to the Lowland warrior said : 

"Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 

Vich- Alpine ^ has discharged his trust. 

This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, 

This head of a rebellious clan, 

Hath led thee safe through watch and ward, 

Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. 

Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 

A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. 

See, here, all vantageless I stand, 20 

Armed, like thyself, with single brand ; 

For this is Coilantogle ford. 

And thou must keep thee with thy sword." 

XIII 

The Saxon paused : "I ne'er delaj^ed. 
When foeman bade me draw my blade ; 
Nay more, brave Chief, I vowed thy 

death : 
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith. 
And my deep debt for life preserved, 
A better meed have well deserved : 
Can naught but blood our feud atone? 
Are there no means?" "No, Stranger, none 
And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — 
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ; 10 

For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred 
Between the living and the dead: 
'Who spills the foremost foeman's life 
His party conquers in the strife.'" 
"Then, by my word," the Saxon said, 
"The riddle is already read. 
Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, — 
There lies Red Murdock,^ stark and stiff. 
Thus Fate hath solved her prophecy, 
Then yield to Fate, and not to me. 20 

To James, at Stirling, let us go. 
When, if thou wilt be still his foe, 
Or if the King shall not agree 
To grant thee grace and favour free, 
I plight my honour, oath, and word. 
That, to thy native strengths restored, 
With each advantage shalt thou stand, 
That aids thee now to guard thy land." 

XIV 

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye: 
"Soars thy presumption, then, so high, 
Because a wretched kern ^ ye slew, 
Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? 

^ the descendant of Alpine - a guide who tried 
to betray him ^ a foot-soldier 



He yields not, he, to man nor fate ! 

Thou add'st but fuel to my hate : — 

My clansman's blood demands revenge. 

Not yet prepared? — By Heaven, I change 

My thought, and hold th}^ valour light 

As that of some vain carpet knight, 10 

W^ho ill deserved my courteous care. 

And whose best boast is but to wear 

A braid of his fair ladj-'s hair." 

"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word! 

It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; 

For I have sworn this braid ^ to stain 

In the best blood that warms thy vein. 

Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! ■ — 

Yet think not that by thee alone. 

Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ; 20 

Though not from copse, nor heath, nor cairn. 

Start at my whistle clansmen stern, 

Of this small horn one feeble blast 

Would fearful odds against thee cast. 

But fear not — doubt not — which thou 

wilt — 
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." 
Then each at once his falchion drew, 
Each on the ground his scabbard threw, 
Each looked to sun and stream and plain. 
And what they ne'er might see again ; 30 

Then, foot and point and eye opposed, 
In dubious strife they darkly closed. 

XV 

111 fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 

That on the field his targe he threw, 

Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide 

Had death so often dashed aside ; 

For, trained abroad his arms to wield, 

Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 

He practised every pass and ward. 

To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; 

While less expert, though stronger far, 

The Gael maintained unequal war. 10 

Three times in closing strife they stood. 

And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood : 

No stinted draught, no scanty tide. 

The gushing floods the tartans dyed. 

Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain. 

And showered his blows like wintry rain ; 

And, as firm rock or castle-roof 

Against the winter shower is proof. 

The foe, invulnerable still, 

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill ; 20 

^ For the story of the braid and his oath, see 
Canto IV, xxi-xxviii. 



422 



CHARLES LAMB 



Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
And, backwards borne upon the lea, 
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. 

XVI 

"Now yield thee, or, by Him who made 

The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade ! " 

"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! 

Let recreant yield, who fears to die." 

Like adder darting from his coil, 

Like wolf that dashes through the toil, 

Like mountain-cat who guards her young, 

Full at Fitz- James's throat he sprung ; 

Received, but recked not of a wound, 

And locked his arms his foeman round. lo 

"Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 

No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 

That desperate grasp thy frame might feel 

Through bars of brass and triple steel ! 

They tug ! They strain ! Down, down they go. 

The Gael above, Fitz- James below. 

The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed, 

His knee was planted in his breast ; 

His clotted locks he backward threw, 

Across his brow his hand he drew, 20 

From blood and mist to clear his sight, 

Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright ! 

But hate and fury ill supplied 

The stream of life's exhausted tide, 

And all too late the advantage came, 

To turn the odds of deadly game ; 

For, while the dagger gleamed on high. 

Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye. 

Down came the blow ! but in the heath 

The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 30 

The struggling foe may now unclasp 

The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp ; 

Unwounded from the dreadful close, 

But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 

CHARLES LAMB (i 775-1834) 

THE TWO RACES OF MEN 

The human species, according to the best 
theory I can form of it, is composed of two 
distinct races, tlie men who borrow, and the 
men who lend. To these two original diver- 
sities may be reduced all those impertinent 
classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, 
white men, black men, red men. All the 
dwellers upon earth, "Parthians, and Medes, 



and Elamites," ^ flock hither, and do naturally 
fall in with one or other of these primary 
distinctions. The infinite superiority of the 
former, which I choose to designate as the 
great race, is discernible in their figure, port, 
and a certain instinctive sovereignty. The 
latter are born degraded. "He shall serve 
his brethren." ^ There is something in the air 
of one of this caste, lean and suspicious ; con- 
trasting with the open, trusting, generous man- 
ners of the other. 

Observe who have been the greatest bor- 
rowers of all ages — Alcibiades ^ — Falstaff — • 
Sir Richard Steele — our late incomparable 
Brinsley * — what a family likeness in all four! 

What a careless, even deportment hath your 
borrower ! what rosy gills ! what a beautiful 
reliance on Providence doth he manifest, — 
taking no more thought tlmn lilies ! ^ What 
contempt for money, — accounting it (yours 
and mine especially) no better than dross ! 
What a liberal confovmding of those pedantic 
distinctions of meimi and tiimn!^ or rather, 
what a noble simplilication of language (be- 
yond Tooke '') , resolving these supposed oppo- 
sites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjec- 
tive ! — What near approaches doth he make 
to the primitive community, — to the extent of 
one-half of the principle at least ! 

He is the true taxer "who calleth all the 
world up to be taxed";* and the distance is 
as vast between him and one of us, as sub- 
sisted betwixt the Augustan Majesty ' and the 
poorest obolary^" Jew that paid it tribute- 
pittance at Jerusalem ! — His exactions, too, 
have such a cheerftd, volimtary air ! So far 
removed from your sour parochial or state- 
gatherers, — those ink-horn varlets, who carry 
their want of welcome in their faces ! He 
Cometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you 
vv'ith no receipt ; confining himself to no set 
season. Every day is his Candlemas, or his 
Feast of Holy Michael." He applieth the lene 
tormentum ^^ of a pleasant look to your purse, — 

^ Acts, ii: 9 ^inaccurately quoted from 
Genesis, ix: 25 ^a pupil of Socrates, celebrated 
for his beauty, talents, insolence, and extrava- 
gance ^ Richard Brinsley Sheridan, dramatist, 
orator, and spendthrift ^ Cf. Matiliew, vi: 28 
^ mine and thine '' Home Tooke, an English 
philologer (1736-1812) ^Ci.Luke,\\: i ''Ro- 
man government ^° able to pay only a half- 
penny ^^ customary dates for settling debts 
^- mild torture, Horace, Odes, HI, xxi, 13 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN 



423 



which to that gentle warmth expands her 
silken leaves, as naturally as the cloak of the 
traveller, for which sun and wind contended ! 
He is the true Propontic which never ebbeth ! ^ 
The sea which taketh handsomely at each 
man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he 
delighteth to honour, struggles with destiny ; 
he is in the net. Lend therefore cheerfully, O 
man ordained to lend — that thou lose not in 
the end, with thy worldly penny, the reversion 
promised.'- Combine not preposterously in 
thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and 
of Dives ! " — but, when thou seest the proper 
authority coming, meet it smilingly, as it were 
half-way. Come, a handsome sacrifice ! See 
how light he makes of it ! Strain not cour- 
tesies with a noble enemy. 

Reflections like the foregoing were forced 
iipon my mind by the death of my old friend, 
Ralph Bigod, Esq., who departed this life on 
Wednesday evening ; dying, as he had lived, 
without much trouble. He boasted himself a 
descendant from mighty ancestors of that 
name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in 
this realm. In his actions and sentiments he 
behed not the stock to which he pretended. 
Early in hfe he found himself invested with 
ample revenues ; which, with that noble dis- 
interestedness which I have noticed as in- 
herent in men of the great race, he took almost 
immediate measures entirely to dissipate and 
bring to nothing : for there is something re- 
volting in the idea of a king holding a private 
purse ; and the thoughts of Bigod were all 
regal. Thus furnished, by the very act of dis- 
furnishment ; getting rid of the cimabersome 
luggage of riches, more apt (as one ^ sings) 

To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, 

Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, 

he sets forth, like some Alexander, upon his 
great enterprise, "borrowing and to borrow V 
In liis periegesis, or triumphant progress 
tliroughout this island, it has been calculated 
that he laid a tithe part of the inhabitants 
under contribution. I reject this estimate as 
greatly exaggerated: but having had the 
honour of accompanying my friend, divers 
times, in his perambulations about this vast 
city, I own I was greatly struck at first with 

1 Cf. Othello, III, iii, 453-6 ' Cf. Luke, vi: 35 
^ i.e., suffer in both worlds ^ Milton, Far. Re- 
gained, ii, 455-6- 



the prodigious number of faces we met, who 
claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with 
us. He was one day so obliging as to explaiii 
the phenomenon. It seems, these were his 
tributaries ; feeders of his exchequer ; gentle- 
men, his good friends (as he was pleased to 
express himself) , to whom he had occasionally 
been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes 
did no way disconcert him. He rather took a 
pride in numbering them ; and, with Comus, 
seemed pleased to be "stocked with so fair a 
herd."i 

With such sources, it was a wonder how he 
contrived to keep his treasiury always empty. 
He did it by force of an aphorism, which he 
had often in his mouth, that "money kept 
longer than three days stinks." So he made 
use of it w4iile it was fresh. A good part he 
drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot), 
some he gave away, the rest he threw away, 
literally tossing and hmding it violently from 
him — as boys do burs, or as if it had been 
infectious, — ■ into ponds, or ditches, or deep 
holes, — inscrutable cavities of the earth : — 
or he would bury it (where he would never 
seek it again) by a river's side imder some 
bank, which (he would facetiously observe) 
paid no interest — but out away from him it 
must go peremptorily, as Hagar's offspring ^ 
into the wilderness, while it was sw^eet. He 
never missed it. The streams were perennial 
which fed his fisc.^ When new supplies be- 
came necessary, the first person that had the 
felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger, 
was sure to contribute to the deficiency. For 
Bigod had an Undeniable way with him. He 
had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick jovial 
eye, a bald forehead, just touched mth grey 
{cmm fides). '^ He anticipated no excuse, and 
found none. And, waiving for a while my 
theory as to the great race, I would put it to 
the most untheorising reader, who may at 
times have disposable coin in his pocket, 
whether it is not more repugnant to the kind- 
liness of his nature to refuse such a one as I 
am describing, than to say no to a poor peti- 
tionary rogue (your bastard borrower), who, 
by his mumping visnomy,'' tells you that he 
expects nolhmg better ; and, therefore, whose 
preconceived notions and expectations you do 
in reality so much less shock in the refusal. 

^ Milton, Comus, ii, 151-2 " Gen-esis, xxi: 14 
^ treasury * hoary faith, i.e., a sign of honesty, 
JLneid, i, 292 '' begging countenance 



424 



CHARLES LAMB 



When I think of this man; his fiery glow 
of heart ; his swell of feeling ; how magnifi- 
cent, how ideal he was ; how great at the mid- 
night hour ; and when I compare with him 
the companions with whom I have associated 
since, I grudge the saving of a few idle ducats, 
and think that I am fallen into the society of 
lenders, and little men. 

To one like Elia,^ whose treasures are rather 
cased in leather covers than closed in iron 
coffers, there is a class of alienators more 
formidable than that which I have touched 
upon ; I mean your borrowers of books — those 
mutilators of collections, spoilers of the sym- 
metry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes. 
There is Comberbatch,^ matchless in his depre- 
dations ! 

That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing 
you, like a great eye-tooth knocked out — 
(you are now with me in my little back study 
in Bloomsbury, Reader !) — with the huge 
Switzer-like ^ tomes on each side (like the 
Guildhall giants, in their reformed posture, 
guardant of nothing ■*) once held the tallest 
of my folios. Opera Bonaventurae,^ choice and 
massy divinity, to which its two supporters 
(school divinity also, but of a lesser calibre, 

— Bellarmine,^ and Holy Thomas^) showed 
but as dwarfs, — itself an Ascapart ! ^ — 
that Comberbatch abstracted upon the faith 
of a theory he holds, which is more easy, I 
confess, for me to suffer by than to refute, 
namely, that "the title to property in a 
book" (my Bona venture, for instance) "is in 
exact ratio to the claimant's powers of under- 
standing and appreciating the same . ' ' Should 
he go on acting upon this theory, which of 
our shelves is safe? 

The slight vacuum in the left-hand case — 
two shelves from the ceiling — scarcely dis- 
tinguishable but by the quick eye of a loser 

— was whilom the commodious resting-place 
of Browne on Urn Burial. C. will hardly 
allege that he knows more about that treatise 
than I do, who introduced it to him, and was 

^ Lamb's pen-name ^ the name assumed by 
Coleridge when he enlisted as a soldier ^ The 
papal guard of Switzers was composed of tall men. 
•* The figures of Gog and Magog, which once 
guarded the entrance, had been removed to the 
back of the hall. ^ St. Bonaventura (1221-74), 
a great religious writer ^ an Italian theologian 
(1542-1621) ^ Cf. p. 211, Note 2 ^a giant in 
the romance of Bevis of Hampton 



indeed the first (of the moderns) to discover 
its beauties — but so have I known a foolish 
lover to praise his mistress in the presence of 
a rival more qualified to carry her off than 
himself. — Just below, Dodsley's dramas ^ 
want their fourth volume, where Vittoria 
Corombona ^ is ! The remainder nine are as 
distasteful as Priam's refuse sons, when the 
fates borrowed Hector. Here stood the Anat- 
omy of Melancholy,^ in sober state. — There 
loitered the Complete Angler ; quiet as in life, 
by some stream side. — In yonder nook, John 
Bimcle, a widower-volum^e, with " eyes closed," 
mourns his ravished mate.^ 

One justice I must do my friend, that if he 
sometimes, like the sea, sweeps away a treas- 
ure, at another time, sea-like, he throws up as 
rich an equivalent to match it. I have a small 
under-coUection of this natm-e (my friend's 
gatherings in his various calls), picked up, he 
has forgotten at what odd places, and de- 
posited with as httle memory at mine. I 
take in these orphans, the twice-deserted. 
These proselytes of the gate ^ are welcome as 
the true Hebrews. There they stand in con- 
junction ; natives, and naturalised. The 
latter seem as little disposed to inquire out 
their true lineage as I am. — I charge no 
ware-house-room for these deodands,® nor 
shall ever put myself to the ungentlemanly 
trouble of advertising a sale of them to pay 
expenses. 

To lose a volume to C. carries some sense 
and meaning in it. You are sure that he 
will make one hearty meal on your viands, if 
he can give no account of the platter after it. 
But what moved thee, wayward, spiteful K.,^ 
to be so importunate to carry off with thee, in 
spite of tears and adjurations to thee to for- 
bear, the Letters of that princely woman, the 
thrice noble Margaret Newcastle ? * — know- 
ing at the time, and knowing that I knew also, 
thou most assuredly wouldst never turn over 
one leaf of the illustrious folio : — what but 
the mere spirit of contradiction, and childish 

^ a collection of Elizabethan plays ^ a play by 
John Webster ^ a curious and learned book by 
Robert Burton (1621) ^ The Life of John Bimcle, 
Esq., a novel in two volumes, by Thomas Amory 
^ a late Rabbinical title for sojourners in Israel, 
cf. Exod., xx: 10 * Used loosely for "forfeited 
objects" ^ James Kenney, dramatist (i 780-1849) 
* Duchess of Newcastle (1624 ?-74), a talented 
and learned woman 



MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 



425 



love of getting the better of thy friend ? — 
Then, worst cut of all ! to transport it with 
thee to the GaUican land — 

Unworthy land to harbour such a sweetness, 
A virtue in which aU ennobling thoughts dwelt, 
Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her 
sex's wonder ! ^ 

— hadst thou not thy play-books, and books 
of jests and fancies, about thee, to keep thee 
merry, even as thou keepest all companies 
with thy quips and mirthful tales ? Child of 
the Greenroom, it was unkindly, unkindly 
done of thee. Thy wife, too, that part- 
French, better-part-Englishwoman ! — that 
she could fix upon no other treatise to bear 
away, in kindly token of remembering us, 
than the works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook ^ 

— of which no Frenchman, nor woman of 
France, Italy, or England, was ever by nature 
constituted to comprehend a tittle ! Was 
there not Zimmennann ^ on Solitude ? 

Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a 
moderate collection, be shy of showing it ; or 
if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, lend 
thy books ; but let it be to such a one 'as 
S. T. C.'' — he will return them (generally 
anticipating the time appointed) with usury ; 
enriched with annotations, tripling their value. 
I have had experience. Many are these 
precious Mss. of his — (in matter oftentimes, 
and almost in quantity not unfrequently, vying 
%\dth the originals) in no very clerkly hand — 
legible in my Daniel ; ^ in old Burton ; in Sir 
Thomas Browne ; and those abstruser cogi- 
tations of the Greville, now, alas ! wandering 
in Pagan lands. — I counsel thee, shut not 
thy heart, nor thy library, against S. T. C. 



jMRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 

"A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigoiu: 
of the game." This was the ctlehxaXcdwish 
of old Sarah Battle^ (now with God), who, 
next to her devotions, loved- a good game of 
whist. She was none of your lukewarm 
gamesters, your half-and-half players, who 
have no objection to take a hand, if you want 
one to make up a rubber ; who affirm that 

^ apparently composed by Lamb himself ^ Sir 
Philip Sidney's friend ^ a Swiss philosopher 
(1728-95) •'Coleridge ° Samuel Daniel ^ an 
imaginary name and person 



they have no pleasure in winning ; that they 
like to win one game and lose another ; that 
they can while away an hour very agreeably 
at a card-table, but are indifferent whether 
they play or no ; and will desire an adversary 
who has slipped a wrong card, to take it up 
and play another. These insufferable triilers 
are the curse of a table. One of these flies 
will spoil a whole pot.^ Of such it may be 
said that they do not play at cards, but only 
play at playing at them. 

Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She 
detested them, as I do, from her heart and 
soul ; and would not, save upon a striking 
emergency, willingly seat herself at the same 
table with them. She loved a thorough-paced 
partner, a determined enemy. She took, and 
gave, no concessions. She hated favours. 
She never made a revoke, nor ever passed it 
over in her adversary without exacting the 
utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight : 
cut and thrust. She held not her good sword 
(her cards) "like a dancer." ^ She sat bolt 
upright ; and neither showed you her cards, 
nor desired to see yours. All people have 
their blind side — their superstitions ; and I 
have heard her declare, under the rose, that 
Hearts was her favourite suit. 

I never in my life — and I knew Sarah 
Battle many of the best years of it — saw her 
take out her snuff-box when it was her turn 
to play ; or snuff a candle m the middle of a 
game ; or ring for a servant, till it was fairly 
over. She never introduced, or connived at, 
miscellaneous conversation during its process. 
As she emphatically observed, cards were 
cards ; and if I ever saw unmingled distaste 
in her fine last-century countenance, it was at 
the airs of a young gentleman of a literary 
turn, who had been with difliculty persuaded 
to take a hand ; and who, in his excess of 
candour, declared, that he thought there was 
no harm in unbending the mind now and 
then, after serious studies, in recreations of 
that kind! She could not bear to have her 
noble occupation, to which she wound up her 
faculties, considered in that light. It was her 
business, her duty, the thing she came into 
the world to do, — and she did it. She un- 
bent her mind afterwards — over a book. 

Pope was her favourite author: his Rape 
of the Lock her favourite work. She once 

1 Cf. Eccles., x: i 2 Cf. Ant. and Geo p., Ill, xi, 
35-6 



426 



CHARLES LAMB 



did me the favour to play over with me (with 
the cards) his celebrated game of Ombre in 
that poem ; and to explain to me how far it 
agreed with, and in what points it would be 
fomid to differ from, tradrUle. Her illustra- 
tions were apposite and poignant ; and I had 
the pleasure of sending the substance of them 
to Mr. Bowles ; ^ but I suppose they came too 
late to be inserted among his ingenious notes 
upon that author. 

Quadrille,^ she has often told me, was her 
first love ; but whist had engaged her maturer 
esteem. The former, she said, was showy and 
specious, and likely to allu-re young persons. 
The uncertainty and quick shifting of partners 

— a thing which the constancy of whist ab- 
hors ; the dazzling supremacy and regal in- 
vestiture of Spadille ^ — absurd, as she justly 
observed, in the pure aristocracy of whist, 
where his crown and garter give him no proper 
power above his brother-nobility of the Aces ; 

— the giddy vanity, so taking to the inexperi- 
enced, of playing alone ; ^ above all, the over- 
powering attractions of a Sans Prendre Vole,^ — 
to the triumph of which there is certainly 
nothing parallel or approaching, in the contin- 
gencies of whist ; — all these, she would say, 
make quadrille a game of captivation to the 
yoimg and enthusiastic. But whist was the 
solider game: that was her word. It was a 
long meal; not like quadriUe, a feast of 
snatches. One of two rubbers might co- 
extend in duration wdth an evening. They 
gave time to form rooted friendships, to 
cultivate steady enmities. She despised the 
chance-started, capricious, and ever-fluctuat- 
ing alliances of the other. The skirmishes of 
quadrille, she would say, reminded her of the 
petty ephemeral embroilments of the Httle 
Itahan states, depicted by Machiavel : ^ per- 
petually changing postures and connections ; 
bitter foes to-day, sugared darlings to-morrow ; 
kissing and scratching in a breath ; — but 
the wars of whist were comparable to the 
long, steady, deep-rooted, rational antipa- 
thies of the great French and English nations. 

A grave simplicity was what she chiefly 
admired in her favourite game. There was 
nothing silly in it, like the nob ^ in cribbage — 

^ He edited Pope in 1806. ^ a variety of ombre 
^ Cf. p. 279, n. 4 ^ Cf. p. 279, 11. 25ff. ^ a term in 
quadrille for a hand able to take all the tricks 
®a famous historian of Italy (1469-1527) ^ the 
knave turned, in cribbage 



nothing superfluous. No flushes — that most 
irrational of all pleas that a reasonable being 
can set up : — that any one should claim four 
by virtue of holding cards of the same mark 
and colour, without reference to the playing 
of the game, or the individual worth or pre- 
tensions of the cards themselves ! She held 
this to be a solecism ; as pitiful an ambition 
at cards as alliteration is in authorship. She 
despised superficiality, and looked deeper than 
the colours of tilings. — Suits were soldiers, 
she would say, and must have a vmiformity of 
array to distmguish them : but what should 
we say to a foolish squire, who should claim 
a merit from dressing up his tenantry in red 
jackets, that never were to be marshalled — 
never to take the field ? — She even wished 
that whist were more simple than it is ; and, 
in my mind, would have stripped it of some 
appendages, which, in the state of human 
frailty, may be venially, and even commend- 
ably, allowed of. She saw no reason for the 
deciding of the trump by the tmn of the card. 
Why not one suit always trumps? — Why 
two colours, when the mark of the suit woidd 
have sufficiently distinguished them without 
it? 

"But the eye, my dear madam, .is agree- 
ably refreshed with the variety. Man is not 
a creatinre of pm-e reason — he must have his 
senses delightfully appealed to. We see it in 
Roman Catholic countries, where the music 
and the paintings draw in many to worship, 
whom your quaker spirit of unsensualising 
would have kept out. — You, yourself, have a 
pretty collection of paintings — but confess to 
me, whether, walking in your gallery at Sand- 
ham,i among those clear Vandykes,^ or among 
the Paul Potters ^ in the ante-room, you ever 
felt your bosom glow with an elegant delight, 
at all comparable to that you have it in your 
power to experience most evenings over a 
well-arranged assortment of the court-cards? 

— the pretty antic habits, like heralds in a 
procession — the gay triumph-assuring scar- 
lets — the contrasting deadly-killing sables 

— the 'hoary majesty of spades' — Pam in 
all his glory ! — ^ 

"All these might be dispensed with; and 

^ an imaginary mansion ^ pictures by the 
famous Dutch portrait painter, Sir Anthony 
Vandyke (i 599-1641) ^ Paul Potter, a Dutch 
painter of animals (1625-54) * Cf. Rape of the 
Lock, iii, 56, 61. 



MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST 



427 



with their naked names upon the drab paste- 
board, the game might go on very well, pic- 
tureless ; but the beauty of cards would be 
extinguished forever. Stripped of all that is 
imaginative in them, they must degenerate 
into mere gambling. Imagine a duU deal 
board, or drum head, to spread them on, in- 
stead of that nice verdant carpet^ (next to 
nature's), fittest arena for those courtly com- 
batants to play their gallant jousts and tour- 
neys in ! — Exchange those delicately -turned 
ivory markers — (work of Chinese artist, 
unconscious of their symbol, — or as pro- 
fanely slighting their true application as the 
arrantest Ephesian journeyman^ that turned 
out those little shrines for the goddess) — 
exchange them for little bits of leather (oxu* 
ancestors' money), or chalk and a slate ! " — 

The old lady, with a smile, confessed the 
soimdness of my logic ; and to her approbation 
of my arguments on her favourite topic that 
evening I have always fancied myself indebted 
for the legacy of a curious cribbage-board, 
made of the finest Sienna marble, which her 
maternal uncle (old Walter Plumer, whom I 
have elsewhere celebrated) brought with him 
from Florence : — this, and a trifle of five 
hundred pounds, came to me at her death. 

The former bequest (which I do not least 
value) I have kept with religious care ; though 
she herself, to confess a truth, was never 
greatly taken with cribbage. It was an essen- 
tially vulgar game, I have heard her say, — 
disputing with her uncle, who was very par- 
tial to it. She could never heartily bring her 
mouth to pronounce "Go," or "That's a go." 
She called it an ungrammatical game. The 
pegging teased her. I once knew her to for- 
feit a rubber (a five-dollar stake) because she 
would not take advantage of the turn-up 
knave, which would have given it her, but 
which she must have claimed by the disgrace- 
ful tenure of declaring "fe'o for his heels." 
There is something extremely genteel in this 
sort of self-denial. Sarah Battle was a gentle- 
woman born. 

Piquet she held the best game at the cards 
for two persons, though she would ridicule the 
pedantry of the terms — such as pique — re- 
pique — the capot — they savoured (she 
thought) of affectation. But games for two, 
or even three, she never greatly cared for. 
She loved the quadrate, or square. She would 



argue thus : — Cards are warfare : the ends 
are gain, with glory. But cards are war, in 
disguise of a sport : when single adversaries 
encounter, the ends proposed are too palpable. 
By themselves, it is too close a fight ; with 
spectators, it is not much bettered. No 
looker-on can be interested, except for a bet, 
and then it is a mere aftair of money; he 
cares not for your luck sympathetically, or for 
your play. — Three are still worse ; a mere 
naked war of every man against every man, 
as in cribbage, without league or alliance ; or 
a rotation of petty and contradictory interests, 
a succession of heartless leagues, and not 
much more hearty infractions of them, as in 
tradrille.'^ — But in square games {she meant 
whist), all that is possible to be attained in 
card-playing is accomplished. There are the 
incentives of profit with honour, common to 
every species — though the latter can be but 
very imperfectly enjoyed in those other games, 
where the spectator is only feebly a partici- 
pator. But the parties in whist are specta- 
tors and principals too. They are a theatre 
to themselves, and a looker-on is not wanted. 
He is rather worse than nothing, and an im- 
pertinence. Wliist abhors neutrality, or in- 
terests beyond its sphere. You glory in some 
surprising stroke of skill or fortune, not be- 
cause a cold — or even an interested — by- 
stander witnesses it, but because your partner 
sympathises in the contingency. You win 
for two. You triumph for two. Two are 
exalted. Two again are mortified; which 
divides their disgrace, as the conjunction 
doubles (by taking off the invidiousness) your 
glories. Two losing to two are better recon- 
ciled, than one to one in that close butchery. 
The hostile feeling is weakened by multiply- 
ing the channels. War becomes a ci^-il game. 
By such reasonings as these the old lady was 
accustomed to defend her favourite pastime. 
No inducement could ever prevail upon her 
to play at any game, where chance entered 
into the composition, for nothing. Chance, 
she would argue — and here again, admire 
the subtlety of her conclusion ; — chance is 
nothing, but where something else depends 
upon it. It is obvious, that cannot be glory. 
What rational cause of exultation could it 
give to a man to turn up size^ ace a hundred 
times together by himself? or before specta- 
tors, where no stake was depending ? — Make 



^ Cf. ibid., iii, 44, 80. * Cf. Acts, xix: 24, 25. 



a variety of ombre 



428 



CHARLES LAMB 



a lottery of a hiindred thousand tickets with 
but one fortiinate number — and what pos- 
sible principle of our nature, except stupid 
wonderment, could it gratify to gain that 
number as many times successively without a 
prize? Therefore she disliked the mixture of 
chance in backgammon, where it was not 
played for money. She called it foolish, and 
those people idiots, who were taken with a 
lucky hit under such circumstances. Games 
of pure skill were as little to her fancy. 
Played for a stake, they were a mere system 
of overreaching. Played for glory, they were 
a mere setting of one man's wit, — his mem- 
ory, or combination-faculty rather — against 
another's ; like a mock-engagement at a 
review, bloodless and profitless. She could 
not conceive a game wanting the spritely 
infusion of chance, the handsome excuses 
of good fortune. Two people playing at 
chess in a corner of a room, whilst whist was 
stirring in the centre, would inspire her with 
insufferable horror and ennui. Those well- 
cut similitudes of Castles and Knights, the 
imagery of the board, she would argue (and 
I think in this case justly), were entirely 
misplaced and senseless. Those hardhead 
contests can in no instance ally with the fancy. 
They reject form and colour. A pencil and 
dry slate (she used to say) were the proper 
arena for such combatants. ' 

To those puny objectors against cards, as 
nurturing the bad passions, she would retort, 
that man is a gaming animal. He must be 
always trying to get the better in something 
or other : — that this passion can scarcely be 
more safely expended than upon a game at 
cards : that cards are a temporary illusion ; 
in truth, a mere drama; for we do but play 
at being mightily concerned, where a few idle 
shillings are at stake, yet, during the illusion, 
we are as mightily concerned as those whose 
stake is crowns and kingdoms. They are a 
sort of dream-fighting ; much ado ; great 
battling, and little bloodshed ; mighty means 
for disproportioned ends : quite as diverting, 
and a great deal more innoxious, than many 
of those more serious games of life, which men 
play without esteeming them to be such. 

With great deference to the old lady's judg- 
ment in these matters, I think I have experi- 
enced some moments in my life when playing 
at cards for nothing has even been agreeable. 
When I am in sickness, or not in the best 
spirits, I sometimes call for the cards, and 



play a game at piquet for love with my cousin 
Bridget^ — Bridget Elia. 

I grant there is something sneaking in it ; 
but with a tooth-ache, or a sprained ankle, — ■ 
when you are subdued and humble, — you 
are glad to put up with an inferior spring 
of action. 

There is such a thing in nature, I am con- 
vinced, as sick whist. 

I grant it is not the highest style of man — I 
deprecate the manes ^ of Sarah Battle — she 
lives not, alas ! to whom I should apologise. 

At such times, those terms which my old 
friend objected to, come in as something ad- 
missible — I love to get a tierce or a quatorze, 
though they mean nothing. I am subdued to 
an inferior interest. Those shadows of win- 
ning amuse me. 

That last game I had with my sweet cousin 
(I capotted her) — (dare I tell thee, how 
foolish I am ?) — I wished it might have lasted 
forever, though we gained nothing, and lost 
nothing, though it was a mere shade of play : 
I would be content to go on in that idle folly 
for ever. The pipkin should be ever boiling, 
that was to prepare the gentle lenitive to my 
foot, which Bridget was doomed to apply after 
the game was over: and, as I do not much 
relish appliances, there it should ever bubble. 
Bridget and I should be ever playing. 



A CHAPTER ON EARS 

I have no ear. — 

Mistake me not. Reader — nor imagine that 
I am by nature destitute of those exterior 
twin appendages, hanging ornaments, and 
(architecturally speaking) handsome volutes ^ 
to the human capital. Better my mother had 
never borne me. — I am, I think, rather deli- 
cately than copiously provided with those 
conduits; and I feel no disposition to envy 
the mule for his plenty, or the mole for her 
exactness, in those ingenious labyrinthine in- 
lets — those indispensable side-intelligencers. 

Neither have I incurred, or done anything 
to incur, with Defoe, that hideous disfigure- 
ment, which constrained him to draw upon 
assurance — to feel " quite unabashed," ** and 

^ that is, his sister Mary ^ spirit ^ spiral orna- 
ments on the capital of an Ionic pillar ** "Ear- 
less, on high, stood unabashed Defoe," Dunciad, 
ii, 147 J but Defoe did not lose his ears. 



A CHAPTER ON EARS 



429 



at ease upon that article. I was never, I 
thank mj^ stars, in the pillory ; nor, if I read 
them aright, is it within the compass of my 
destiny, that I ever should be. 

When therefore I say that I have no ear, 
3'ou will understand me to mean — for music. 
To say that this heart never melted at the 
concord of sweet sounds, would be a foiil self- 
libel. "Water parted from the sea"^ never 
fails to move it strangely. So does "In in- 
fancy."^ But they were used to be sung at 
her harpsichord (the old-fashioned instrument 
in vogue in those days) by a gentlewoman — 
the gentlest, sure, that ever merited the ap- 
pellation — ■ the sweetest — why should I hesi- 
tate to name Mrs. S , once the blooming 

Fanny Weatheral of the Temple ^ — who had 
power to thrill the soul of Elia, small imp as 
he was, even in his long coats; and to make 
him glow, tremble, and blush with a passion, 
that not faintly indicated the dayspring of 
that absorbing sentiment which was after- 
wards destined to overwhelm and subdue his 
nature quite for Alice W n.^ 

I even think that sentimentally I am dis- 
posed to harmony. But organically I am in- 
capable of a tune. I have been practising 
"God save the King'' all my life; whistling 
and humming of it over to myself in solitary 
corners ; and am not yet arrived, they tell 
me, within many quavers of it. Yet hath the 
loyalty of Elia never been impeached. 

I am not without suspicion, that I have 
an undeveloped faculty of music within me. 
For, thrumming, in my wUd way, on my friend 
A.'s piano, the other morning, while he was 
engaged in an adjoining parlour, — on his re- 
turn he was pleased to say, "he thought it 
could not be the maid I" On his first surprise 
at hearing the keys touched in somewhat an 
airy and masterfvil way, not dreaming of me, 
his suspicions had lighted on Jenny. But a 
grace, snatched from a superior refinement, 
soon convinced him that some being — tech- 
nically perhaps deficient, but higher informed 
from a principle common to all the fine arts 
— had swayed the keys to a mood which 
Jenny, with all her (less cultivated) enthu- 
siasm, could never have elicited from them. 
I mention this as a proof of my friend's pene- 

^ Songs in Arla.xer.xes, an opera he heard when 
six years old — his first play - Cf . Spenser's 
Prothalamion, 11. 132-5. ''a feigned name for the 
love of his youth 



tration, and not with any view of disparaging 
Jenny. 

Scientifically I could never be made to 
understand (yet have I taken some pains) 
what a note in music is; or how one note 
should differ from another. Much less in 
voices can I distinguish a soprano from a 
tenor. Only sometimes the thorough-bass I 
contrive to guess at, from its being super- 
eminently harsh and disagreeable. I tremble, 
however, for my misapplication of the simplest 
terms of that which I disclaim. While I 
profess my ignorance, I scarce know what 
to say I am ignorant of. I hate, perhaps, by 
misnomers. Sostenuto and adagio stand in 
the like relation of obscurity to me ; and 
Sol, Fa, Mi, Re, is as conjuring as BaraUpton?- 

It is hard to stand alone in an age like this, 
— (constituted to the quick and critical per- 
ception of aU harmonious combinations, I 
verily believe, beyond aU preceding ages, since 
JubaP stumbled upon the gamut,) to remain, 
as it were, singly imimpressible to the magic 
influences of an art, which is said to have 
such an especial stroke at soothing, elevating, 
and refining the passions. — Yet, rather than 
break the candid current of my confessions, I 
must avow to you that I have received a great 
deal more pain than pleasure from this so 
cried-up faculty. 

I am constitutionally susceptible of noises. 
A carpenter's hammer, in a warm summer 
noon, will fret me into more than midsum- 
mer madness. But those unconnected, unset 
sounds are nothing to the measured malice 
of music. The ear is passive to those single 
strokes; willingly enduring stripes, while it 
hath no task to con. To music it cannot be 
passive. It will strive — mine at least will — 
spite of its inaptitude, to thrid the maze ; like 
an unskilled eye painfully poring upon hiero- 
glyphics. I have sat through an Italian 
Opera, till, for sheer pain, and inexplicable 
anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest 
places of the crowded streets, to solace myself 
with sounds, which I was not obliged to follow, 
and get rid of the distracting torment of end- 
less, fruitless, barren attention ! I take refuge 
in the unpretending assemblage of honest 
common-life sounds ; — and the purgatory of 
the Enraged Musician ^ becomes my paradise. 

^ technical term in logic ^ the traditional 
inventor of musical instruments, cf. Genesis, iv: 21. 
^ a picture by William Hogarth (1697-1764) 



43° 



CHARLES LAMB 



I have sat at an Oratorio (that profanation 
of the purposes of the cheerful playhouse) 
watching the faces of the auditory in the pit 
(what a contrast to Hogarth's Laughmg Au- 
dience!) immovable, or affecting some fault 
emotion — tiU (as some have said, that our 
occupations in the next world will be but a 
shadow of what delighted us in this) I have 
imagined myself in some cold Theatre in 
Hades, where some of the forms of the earthly 
one should be kept us, with none of the 
enjoyment ; or like that 

— Party in a parlour 

All silent, and all damned.^ 

Above all, those insufferable concertos, and 
pieces of music, as they are called, do plague 
and embitter my apprehension. — Words are 
something; but to be exposed to an endless 
battery of mere sounds ; to be long a-dying ; 
to lie stretched upon a rack of roses ; to keep 
up languor by unintermitted effort; to pUe 
honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to 
an interminable tedious sweetness ; to fill up 
sound with feeling, and strain ideas to keep 
pace with it ; to gaze on empty frames, and 
be forced to make the pictures for yourself; 
to read a book, all stops,^ and be obliged to 
supply the verbal matter; to invent extem- 
pore tragedies to answer to the vague gestures 
of an inexplicable ram.bling mime ^ — these are 
faint shadows of what I have undergone from 
a series of the ablest-executed pieces of this 
empty instrumental music. 

I deny not, that in the opening of a concert, 
I have experienced something vastly lulling 
and agreeable : — afterwards foUoweth the 
languor and the oppression. Like that dis- 
appointing book in Patmos;* or, like the 
comings on of melancholy, described by Bur- 
ton, doth music make her first insinuating 
approaches: — "Most pleasant it is to such 
as are melancholy given, to walk alone in 
some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, 
by some brook side, and to meditate upon 
some delightsome and pleasant subject, which 
shall affect him most, amabilis insania,^ and 
mentis gratissimus error.'' A most incompa- 
rable delight to build castles in the air, to go 

^ From a suppressed stanza of Wordsworth's 
Peter Bell, ^punctuation marks ^a pantomim- 
ist * Cf. Revelation, x : lo ^ pleasant lunacy 
® most delightful mental delusion 



smUing to themselves, acting an infinite 
variety of parts, which they suppose, and 
strongly imagine, they act, or that they see 
done. — So delightsome these toys ^ at first, 
they could spend whole days and nights with- 
out sleep, even whole years in such contem- 
plations, and fantastical meditations, which 
are like so many dreams, and will hardly 
be drawn from them — winding and unwind- 
ing themselves as so many clocks, and stUl 
pleasing their humours, until at the last the 
scene turns upon a sudden, and they being 
now habitated to such meditations and soli- 
tary places, can endure no company, can think 
of nothing but harsh and distasteful subjects. 
Fear, sorrow, suspicion, subrusticiis pudor^ 
discontent, cares, and weariness of life, sur- 
prise them on a sudden, and they can think 
of nothing else: continually suspecting, no 
sooner are their eyes open, but this infernal 
plague of melancholy seizeth on them, and 
terrifies their souls, representing some dis- 
mal object to their minds; which now, by 
no means, no labour, no persuasions, they 
can avoid, they cannot be rid of, they cannot 
resist." 

Something like this "scene turning" I have 
experienced at the evening parties, at the 

house of my good Catholic friend Nov ; ^ 

who, by the aid of a capital organ, himself 
the most finished of players, converts his 
drawing-room into a chapel, his week days 
into Sundays, and these latter into minor 
heavens. 

When my friend commences upon one of 
those solemn anthems, which peradventure 
struck upon my heedless ear, rambling in the 
side aisles of the dim Abbey, some five-and- 
thirty years since, waking a new sense, and 
putting a soul of old religion into my young 
apprehension — (whether it be that, in which 
the Psalmist, weary of the persecutions of 
bad men, wisheth to himself dove's wings — 
or that other which, with a like measure of so- 
briety and pathos, inquireth by what means 
the young man shall best cleanse his mind) — 
a holy calm pervadeth me. — I am for the 
time 

— rapt above earth, 
And possess joys not promised at my birth.* 

^ trifles ^ almost clownish shame ^ Vincent 
Novello, organist of the Portuguese embassy 
chapel * By an unknown author ; quoted in 
Walton's Complete Angler. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 



431 



But when this master of the spell, not con- 
tent to have laid a soul prostrate, goes on, in 
his power, to inflict more bliss than lies in her 
capacity to receive — impatient to overcome 
her "earthly" with his "heavenly," —still 
pouring in, for protracted hours, fresh waves 
and fresh from the sea of sound, or from that 
in exhausted Genua n ocean,^ above which, in 
triumphant progress, dolphin-seated, ride 
those Arions - Haydn and Mozart, with their 
attendant Tritons,^ Bach, Beethoven, and a 
countless tribe, whom to attempt to reckon 
up would but plunge me again in the deeps, — 
I stagger under the weight of harmony, reel- 
ing to and fro at my wits' end ; — clouds, 
as of frankincense, oppress me — priests, 
altars, censers dazzle before me — the genius 
of his religion hath me in her toils — a shad- 
owy triple tiara invests the brow of my friend, 
late so naked, so ingenuous — he is Pope, — 
and by him sits, like as in the anomaly of 
dreams, a she-Pope too, — tri-coroneted like 
himself ! — I am converted, and yet a Prot- 
estant ; — at once malleus hereticonim,'^ and 
myself grand heresiarch : or three heresies 
centre in .my person : — ■ I am Marcion, Ebion, 
and Cerinthus^ — Gog and Magog^ — what 
not ? — till the coming in of the friendly 
supper-tray dissipates the figment, and a 
draught of true Lutheran beer (in which 
chiefly my friend shows himself no bigot) 
at once reconciles me to the rationalities of a 
purer faith ; and restores to me the genuine 
unterrifying aspects of my pleasant-counte- 
nanced host and hostess. 

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 

I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- 
days; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom 

cronies ; 
AH, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 6 

^ of music ^ Arion, a Greek h'ric poet, is fabled 
to have been thrown into the sea by sailors and 
carried safely ashore by dolphins who had gathered 
to listen to his music. ^ Cf. note on Wordsworth's 
sonnet, The world is too much with us, 1. 14. 
'' Hammer of Heretics, title of a book by Johann 
Faber (1478-1541) ^ typical heresiarchs ^ Cf. 
Revelation, xx : 8 



I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see 

her — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend,^ a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 12 

Ghost-like I paced round the haimts of my 

childhood. 
Earth seemed a desert I was boimd to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom,- thou more than a 

brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's 

dwelling ? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 18 

How some they have died, and some they 
have left me, 

And some are taken from me ; all are de- 
parted ; 

All, aU are gone, the old familiar faces. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL (i 777-1844) 

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

A NAVAL ODE 

Ye mariners of England 

That guard our native seas. 

Whose flag has braved a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe, 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long. 

And the stormy winds do blow. 10 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from ever>' wave ! — 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave : 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep. 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 20 

^ Charles Lloyd " Coleridge 



432 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 



Britannia needs no bulwark, 

No towers along the steep ; 

Her march is o'er the mountain waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 30 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn, 

Till danger's troubled night depart 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shaU flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow ; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more. 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 40 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

Of Nelson and the North 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand 

In a bold determin'd hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. 9 

Like leviathans afloat 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine, 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British Ime : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death, 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. 18 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene. 

And her van the fleeter rushed 

O'er the deadly space between — 

"Hearts of oak," our captains cried, when 

each gun 
From its adamantine lips 
Spread a death-shade round the ships. 
Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 27 



Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; — ■ 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shattered safl. 

Or m conflagration pale 

Light the gloom. 36 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hailed them o'er the wave ; 

"Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save ; 

So peace instead of death let us bring : 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet 

With the crews at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our King." 45 

Then Denmark blest our chief, 

That he gave her woimds repose ; 

And the sounds of joy and grief. 

From her people wildly rose. 

As death withdrew his shades from the day ; 

While the sun looked smfling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight. 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. 54 

Now joy, old England, raise ! 

For the tidings of thy might. 

By the festal cities' blaze. 

While the wine cup shines in light ; 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep, 

Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! 63 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true. 

On the deck of fame that died, — 

With the gallant good Riou,^ 

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their 

grave ! 
While the bfllow mournfiil rolls, 
And the mermaid's song condoles. 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave! 72 

^ Capt. Edward Riou, distinguished for his skill 
and courage in this battle, was cut in two by a 
cannon shot. 



THOMAS MOORE 



433 



THOMAS MOORE (1779-1852) 
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING 

The time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The hght, that hes 

In woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scorn 'd the lore she brought me, 

My only books 

Were woman's looks, 
And folly's all they've taught me. 10 

Her smile when Beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted. 

Like him the Sprite, 

Whom maids by night 
Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
Like him, too, Beauty won me, 
But while her eyes were on me ; 

If once their ray 

Was turned away, 
Oh, winds could not outrun me. 20 

And are those foUies going ? 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold or wise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing? 
No, vain, alas ! th' endeavour 
From bonds so sweet to sever ; 

Poor Wisdom's chance 

Against a glance 
Is now as weak as ever. 30 



OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT 

Oft, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. 
Fond Memory brings the hght 
Of other days around me ; 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimm'd and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



When I remember all 

The friends, so link'd together, 
I've seen around me fall. 

Like leaves in wintry weather ; 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus, in the stilly night. 

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 

'Tis the last rose of summer. 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred. 

No rosebud, is nigh 
To reflect back her blushes. 

Or give sigh for sigh ! 8 



I'll not leave thee, thou lone one. 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping. 

Go, sleep thou with them ; 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 



16 



So soon may I follow, 

When friendships decay. 
And from love's shining circle 

The gems drop away ! 
When true hearts lie withered. 

And fond ones are flown, 
O, who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone ! 



24 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
TARA'S HALLS 

The harp that once through Tara's halls ^ 

The soul of music shed. 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 

^ the palace of the high kings of Ireland 



434 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY 



So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise 

Now feel that pulse no more ! 8 

No m-ore to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes. 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks. 

To show that still she lives. i6 



LEIGH HUNT (i 784-1859) 

RONDEAU 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
Time, you thief, who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in : 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 5 

Say that health and wealth have missed me, 
Say I'm growing old, but add, 

Jenny kissed me. 



FAIRIES' SONG 

We the fairies blithe and antic, 

Of dimensions not gigantic. 

Though the moonshine mostly keep us 

Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 4 

Stolen sweets are always sweeter ; 
Stolen kisses much completer ; 
Stolen looks are nice in chapels ; 
Stolen, stolen be your apples. 8 

When to bed the world are bobbing, . 
Then's the time for orchard-robbing ; 
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling 
Were it not for stealing, stealing. 12 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY (1785-1859) 

F^OM CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH 
OPIUM-EATER 

INTRODUCTION TO THE PAINS OF OPIUM 

If any man, poor or rich, were to say that 
he would tell us what had been the happiest 
day in his life, and the why and the wherefore, 
I suppose that we should all cry out, Hear 
him ! hear him ! As to the happiest day, that 
must be very difficult for any wise man to 
name ; because any event, that could occupy 
so distinguished a place in a man's retrospect 
of his life, or be entitled to have shed a special 
felicity on any one day, ought to be of such 
an enduring character, as that (accidents 
apart) it should have continued to shed the 
same felicity, or one not distinguishably less, 
on many years together. To the happiest 
lustrum, however, or even to the happiest 
year, it may be allowed to any man to point 
without discountenance from wisdom. This 
year, in my case, reader, was the one which 
we have now reached ; though it stood, I 
confess, as a parenthesis between years of a 
gloomier character. It was a year of brilliant 
water (to speak after the manner of jewellers), 
set, as it were, and insulated, in the gloom and 
cloudy melancholy of opitun. Strange as it 
may sound, I had a little before this time 
descended suddenly, and without any con- 
siderable effort, from three hundred and 
twenty grains of opium (that is, eight thou- 
sand drops of laudanum) per day, to forty 
grains, or one-eighth part. Instantaneously, 
and as if by magic, the cloud of profoundest 
melancholy which rested upon my brain, like 
some black vapours that I have seen roll 
away from the summits of mountains, drew 
off in one day ; passed oil with its murky 
banners as simultaneously as a ship that has 
been stranded, and is floated off by a spring 
tide, — 

That moveth altogether, if it move at all.^ 

Now, then,. I was again happy; I now took 
only one thousand drops of laudanum per 
day, — and what was that? A latter spring 
had come to close up the season of youth : 

^ Wordsworth, Resolution and Independence, 
1. 77 ; altogether should be all together 



CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER 



435 



my brain performed its functions as healthily 
as ever before. I read Kant ^ again, and again 
I' understood him, or fancied that I did. 
Again my feelings of pleasure expanded them- 
selves to all around me ; and, if any man from 
Oxford or Cambridge, or from neither, had 
been announced to me in my unpretending 
cottage, I should have welcomed him with as 
sumptuous a reception as so poor a man could 
offer. Whatever else was wanting to a wise 
man's happiness, of laudanum I would have 
given him as much as he wished, and in a 
golden cup. And, by the way, now that I 
speak of giving laudanum away, I remember, 
about this time, a little incident, which I 
mention, because, trifling as it was, the reader 
will soon meet it again in my dreams, which it 
influenced more fearfully than could be im- 
agined. One day a Malay knocked at my 
door. What business a ]Malay could have to 
transact amongst English mountains, I cannot 
conjecture ; but possibly he was on his road 
to a seaport about forty miles distant. 

The servant Avho opened the door to him 
was a young girl, born and bred amongst the 
mountains, who had never seen an Asiatic 
dress of any sort : his turban, therefore, con- 
founded her not a little ; and as it turned out 
that his attainments in English were exactly 
of the same extent as hers in the Malay, there 
seemed to be an impassable gulf fixed between 
all commimication of ideas, if either party had 
happened to possess any. In this dilemma, 
the girl, recollecting the reputed learning of 
her master (and, doubtless, giving me credit 
for a knowledge of all the languages of the 
earth, besides, perhaps, a few of the lunar 
ones), came and gave me to understand that 
there was a sort of demon below, whom she 
clearly imagined that my art would exorcise 
from the house. I did not immediately go 
down ; but when I did, the group which pre- 
sented itself, arranged as it was by accident, 
though not very elaborate, took hold of my 
fancy and my eye in a way that none of the 
statuesque attitudes exhibited in the ballets 
at the opera-house, though so ostentatiously 
complex, had ever done. In a cottage kitchen 
but panelled on the wall with dark wood, that 
from age and rubbing resembled oak, and look- 
ing more like a rustic hall of entrance than a 
kitchen, stood the Malay, his turban and 
loose trousers of dingy white relieved upon 

^ a profound German philosopher (1724-1S04) 



the dark panelling; he had placed himself 
nearer to the girl than she seemed to relish, 
though her native spirit of mountain intrepid- 
ity contended with the feeUng of simple awe 
which her countenance expressed, as she gazed 
upon the tiger-cat before her. And a more 
striking pictmre there could not be imagined, 
than the beautiful English face of the girl, 
and its exquisite fairness, together with her 
erect and independent attitude, contrasted 
with the sallow and bilious skin of the JMalay, 
enamelled or veneered with mahogany by 
marine air, his small, fierce, restless eyes, thin 
lips, slavish gestures, and adorations. Half 
hidden by the ferocious-looking ]\Ialay, was 
a little child from a neighbouring cottage, who 
had crept in after liim, and was now in the act 
of reverting its head and gazing upwards at 
the turban and the fiery eyes beneath it, 
whilst with one hand he caught at the dress 
of the young woman for protection. 

My knowledge of the Oriental tongues is not 
remarkably extensive, being, indeed, confined 
to two words, — the Arabic word for barley, 
and the Turldsh for opium (madjoon), which 
I have learnt from Anastasius.^ And, as I had 
neither a Malay dictionary, nor even Adelung's 
Mithridates,"^ which might have helped me to a 
few words, I addressed him in some lines from 
the Iliad ; considering that, of such language 
as I possessed, the Greek, in point of longitude, 
came geographically nearest to an Oriental 
one. He worshipped me in a devout manner, 
and replied in vvhat I suppose was INIalay. In 
this way I saved my reputation with my neigh- 
bours ; for the Malay had no means of betray- 
ing the secret. He lay down upon the floor 
for about an hour, and then pursued his jour- 
ney. On his departure, I presented him \\ith 
a piece of opium. To him, as an Orientalist, 
I concluded that opium must be familiar, and 
the expression of his face convinced me that 
it was. Nevertheless, I v/as struck with some 
httle consternation when I saw him suddenly 
raise his hand to his mouth, and (m the school- 
boy phrase) bolt the whole, divided into three 
pieces, at one mouthful. The quantity was 
enough to kill three dragoons and their horses, 
and I felt some alarm for the poor creature; 
but what could be done? I had given him 

^ Anaslasius : or, Mevwirs of a Greek (1S19) 
by Thomas Hope ^ Mithridatcs, oder allgcmeine 
S prachenknnde (1806), by J. C. Adelung, contains 
specimens of many languages. 



436 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY 



the opium in compassion for his soUtary hfe, 
on recollecting that, if he had travelled on foot 
from London, it must be nearly three weeks 
since he could have exchanged a thought with 
any human being. I could not think of vio- 
lating the laws of hospitaUty by having him 
seized and drenched with an emetic, and thus 
frightening him into a notion that we were 
going to sacrifice him to some English idol. 
No ; there was clearly no help for it. He 
took his leave, and for some days I felt 
anxious ; but, as I never heard of any Malay 
being foimd dead, I became convinced that he 
was used to opium, and that I must have done 
him the service I designed, by giving him one 
night of respite from the pains of wandering. 
This incident I have digressed to mention, 
because this Malay (partly from the pictur- 
esque exhibition he assisted to frame, partly 
from the anxiety I connected with his image 
for some days) fastened afterwards upon my 
dreams, and brought other Malays with him 
worse than himself, that ran "a-muck" at 
me, and led me into a world of troubles. But, 
to quit this episode, and to return to my inter- 
calary year of happiness. I have said already, 
that on a subject so important to us all as 
happiness, we should listen with pleasure to 
any man's experience or experiments, even 
though he were but a ploughboy, who cannot 
be supposed to have ploughed very deep in 
such an intractable soil as that of human pains 
and pleasures, or to have conducted his re- 
searches upon any very enlightened principles. 
But I, who have taken happiness, both in a 
solid and a liquid shape, both boiled and un- 
boiled, both East India and Turkey, — who 
have conducted my experiments upon this in- 
teresting subject with a sort of galvanic bat- 
tery, — and have, for the general benefit of 
the world, inoculated myself, as it were, with 
the poison of eight hundred drops of laudanum 
per day (just for the same reason as a French 
surgeon inoculated himself lately with a can- 
cer, — an English one, twenty years ago, with 
plague, — and a third, I know not of what 
nation, with hydrophobia), — I, it will be 
admitted, must surely know what happiness 
is, if anybody does. And therefore I will here 
lay down an analysis of happiness ; and, as 
the most interesting mode of communicating 
it, I will give it, not didactically, but wrapt 
up and involved in a picture of one evening, 
as I spent every evening during the intercala'ry 
year when laudanum, though taken daily, was 



to me no more than the elixir of pleasure. 
This done, I shall quit the subject of happi- 
ness altogether, and pass to a very dififerent 
one, — the pains of opium. 

Let there be a cottage, standing in a valley, 
eighteen miles from any town ; no spacious 
valley, but about two miles long by three 
quarters of a mile in average width, — the 
benefit of which provision is, that all the fami- 
lies resident within its circuit will compose, as 
it were, one larger household, personally 
familiar to your eye, and more or less interest- 
ing to your affections. Let the mountains be 
real mountains, between three and four thou- 
sand feet high, and the cottage a real cottage, 
not (as a witty author has it) "a cottage with 
a double coach-house" ; let it be, in fact (for 
I must abide by the actual scene), a white 
cottage, embowered with flowering shrubs, so 
chosen as to unfold a succession of flowers 
upon the walls, and clustering around the 
windows, through all the months of spring, 
summer, and autumn ; beginning, in fact, with 
May roses, and ending with jasmine. Let it, 
however, not be spring, nor summer, nor 
autumn ; but winter, in its sternest shape. 
This is a most important point in the science of 
happiness. And I am surprised to see people 
overlook it, and think it matter of congratu- 
lation that winter is going, or, if coming, is not 
likely to be a severe one. On the contrary, I 
put up a petition, annually, for as much snow, 
hail, frost, or storm of one kind or other, as 
the skies can possibly afford us. Surely every- 
body is aware of the divine pleasures which 
attend a winter fireside, — candles at four 
o'clock, warm hearth-rugs, tea, a fair tea- 
maker, shutters closed, curtains flowing in 
ample draperies on the floor, whilst the wind 
and rain are raging audibly without. 

And at the doors and windows seem to call 
As heaven and earth they would together mail ; 
Yet the least entrance find thc}^ none at all ; 
Whence sweeter grows our rest secure in massy hall. 
— Castle of Indolence. 

All these are items in the description of a 
winter evening which must surely be familiar 
to everybody born in a high latitude. And it 
is evident that most of these delicacies, like 
ice-cream, require a very low temperature of 
the atmosphere to produce them : they are 
fruits which cannot be ripened without weather 
stormy or inclement, in some way or other. I 
am not "particular," as people say, whether 



CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER 



437 



it be snow, or black frost, or wind so strong 

that (as Mr. says) "you may lean your 

back against it like a post." I can put up 
even with rain, provided that it rains cats 
and dogs ; but something of the sort I must 
have; and if I have not, I think myself in a 
manner ill used : for why am I called on to 
pay so heavily for winter, in coals, and candles, 
and various privations that AviU occur even 
to gentlemen, if I am not to have the article 
good of its kind ? No : a Canadian winter, 
for my money ; or a Russian one, where every 
man is but a co-proprietor with the north 
wind in the fee-simple of his own ears. In- 
deed, so great an epicure am I in this matter, 
that I cannot relish a winter night fully, if it 
be much past St. Thomas' day,^ and have de- 
generated into disgusting tendencies to vernal 
appearances ; — no, it must be divided by a 
thick wall of dark nights from all return of 
light and sunshine. From the latter weeks 
of October to Christmas-eve, therefore, is the 
period during which happiness is in season, 
which, in my judgment, enters the room with 
the tea-tray ; for tea, though ridiculed by 
those who are naturally of coarse nerves, or 
are become so from wine-drinking, and are not 
susceptible of influence from so refined a stim- 
ulant, will always be the favourite beverage 
of the intellectual ; and, for my part, I would 
have joined Dr. Johnson in a belliim inter- 
neciniim - agamst Jonas Hanway,^ or any other 
impious person who should presume to dispar- 
age it. But here, to save myself the trouble 
of too much verbal description, I will intro- 
duce a painter, and give him directions for the 
rest of the picture. Painters do not like white 
cottages, vmless a good deal weather-stained; 
but, as the reader now understands that it is 
a winter night, his services will not be re- 
cjuired except for the inside of the house. 

Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by 
twelve, and not more than seven and a half 
feet high. This, reader, is somewhat am- 
bitiously styled, in my family, the drawing- 
room ; but being contrived "a double debt to 
pay," '^ it is also, and more justly, termed the 
library ; for it happens that books are the only 
article of property in which I am richer than 
my neighbours. Of these I have about five 

^ Dec. 2 1 or Dec. 29 ^ war to the death ^ a 
violent opponent of tea, who got into conflict 
on the subject with Dr. Johnson, who was a great 
tea-drinker ■* Cf. The Deserted Village, 1. 229 



thousand, collected gradually since my eigh- 
teenth year. Therefore, painter, put as many 
as you can into this room. Make it populous 
with books, and, furthermore, paint me a good 
fire ; and furniture plain and modest, befitting 
the unpretending cottage of a scholar. And 
near the fire paint me a tea-table ; and (as it is 
clear that no creature can come to see one, 
such a stormy night) place only two cups and 
saucers on the tea-tray; and, if you know 
how to paint such a thing symbolically, or 
otherwise, paint me an eternal tea-pot, — 
eternal a parte ante, and a parte post ; ^ for I 
usually drink tea from eight o'clock at night 
to four in the morning. And, as it is very un- 
pleasant to make tea, or to pour it out for 
one's self, paint me a lovely young woman, 
sitting at the table. Paint her arms like 
Aurora's,^ and her smiles like Hebe's ; ^ — but 
no, dear M., not even in jest let me insinuate 
that thy power to illuminate my cottage rests 
upon a tenure so perishable as mere personal 
beauty ; or that the witchcraft of angelic 
smUes lies within the empire of any earthly 
pencil. Pass, then, my good painter, to some- 
thing more within its power ; and the next 
article brought forward should naturally be 
myself, — a picture of the Opium-eater, with 
his "Uttle golden receptacle of the pernicious 
drug" ^ lying beside him on the table. As to 
the opium, I have no objection to see a picture 
of that, though I would rather see the original ; 
you may paint it, if you choose ; but I apprise 
you that no "little" receptacle would, even in 
1816, answer my purpose, Avho was at a dis- 
tance from the "stately Pantheon,"^ and all 
druggists (mortal or otherwise). No: you 
may as well paint the real receptacle, which 
was not of gold, but of glass, and as much like 
a wine-decanter as possible. Into this you 
may put a quart of ruby-coloured laudanum ; 
that, and a book of German metaphysics 
placed by its side, wiU sufficiently attest my 
being in the neighbourhood ; but as to myself, 
there I demur. I admit that, naturally, I 
ought to occupy the foreground of the picture ; 
that being the hero of the piece, or (if you 
choose) the criminal at the bar, my body 

^ eternal from both directions ' the goddess of 
morning ^ the goddess of eternal youth ^ Such as 
Anastasius had ^ Cf. Wordsworth, The Power of 
Music, 11. 3, 4; De Quincey bought his first 
opium from a druggist near the Pantheon, who 
seemed to him hardly mortal. 



438 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY 



should be had into court. This seems reason- 
able ; but why should I confess, on this point, 
to a painter? or, why confess at all? If the 
public (into whose private ear I am con- 
fidentially whispering my confessions, and 
not into any painter's) should chance to have 
framed some agreeable picture for itself of the 
Opium-eater's exterior, — should have as- 
cribed to him, romantically, an elegant per- 
son, or a handsome face, why should I bar- 
barously tear from it so pleasing a delusion, 
— pleasing both to the public and to me ? 
No : paint me, if at all, according to your own 
fancy ; and, as a painter's fancy should teem 
with beautiful creations, I cannot fail, in that 
way, to be a gainer. And now, reader, we have 
run through all the ten categories ^ of my con- 
dition, as it stood about 1816-1817, up to the 
middle of which latter year I judge myself to 
have been a happy man ; and the elements 
of that, happiness I have endeavoured to place 
before you, in the above sketch of the interior 
of a scholar's library, — in a cottage among 
the mountains, on a stormy winter evening. 

But now farewell, a long farewell, to happi- 
ness, winter or summer ! farewell to smiles 
and laughter ! farewell to peace of mind ! fare- 
well to hope and to tranquil dreams, and to 
the blessed consolations of sleep ! For more 
than three years and a half I am summoned 
away from these ; I am now arrived at an 
Iliad of woes : for I have now to record 

THE PAINS OF OPIUM 

... as when some great painter dips 

His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse. 

Shelley's Revolt of Islam (V. 23). 



I now pass to what is the main subject of 
these latter confessions, to the history and 
journal of what took place in my dreams; 
for these were the immediate and proximate 
cause of my acutest suffering. 

The first notice I had of any important 
change going on in this part of my physical 
economy, was from the re-awaking of a state 
of eye generally incident to childhood, or 
exalted states of irritabiUty. I know not 
whether my reader is aware that many chil- 
dren, perhaps most, have a power of painting, 

^ Aristotle's ten classes into which all things 
may be distributed 



as it were, upon the darkness, all sorts of phan- 
toms : in some that power is simply a me- 
chanic affection of the eye; others have a 
voluntary or semi-voluntary power to dismiss 
or summon them ; or, as a child once said to 
me, when I questioned him on this matter, 
"1 can tell them to go, and they go; but 
sometimes they come when I don't tell them 
to come." Whereupon I told him that he 
had almost as unlimited a command over 
apparitions as a Roman centurion over his 
soldiers. In the middle of 181 7, I think it 
was, that this faculty became positively dis- 
tressing to me : at night, when I lay awake in 
bed, vast processions passed along in mourn- 
ful pomp ; friezes of never-ending stories, 
that to my feelings were as sad and solemn 
as if they were stories drawn from times before 
QEdipus^ or Priam,^ before Tyre,^ before Mem- 
phis.'* And, at the same time, a corresponding 
change took place in my dreams ; a theatre 
seemed suddenly opened and lighted up within 
my brain, which presented, nightly, spectacles 
of more than earthly splendour. And the four 
following facts may be mentioned, as notice- 
able at this time : 

I. That, as the creative state of the eye 
increased, a sympathy seemed to arise between 
the waking and the dreaming states of the 
brain in one point, — that whatsoever I 
happened to call up and to trace by a volun- 
tary act upon the darkness was very apt to 
transfer itself to my dreams ; so that I feared 
to exercise this faculty ; for, as IMidas turned 
all things to gold, that yet baflied his hopes 
and defrauded his human desires, so whatso- 
ever things capable of being visually repre- 
sented I did but think of in the darlmess, im- 
mediately shaped themselves into phantoms 
of the eye; and, by a process apparently no 
less inevitable, when thus once traced in faint 
and visionary colours, like writings in sym- 
pathetic ink, they were drawn out, by the 
fierce chemistry of my dreams, into insuSer- 
able splendour that fretted my heart. 

II. For this, and aU other changes in my 
dreams, were accompanied by deep-seated 
anxiety and gloomy melancholy, such as are 
wholly incommunicable by words. I seemed 
every night to descend — not metaphorically, 
but literally to descend — into chasms and 

* King of Thebes ^ King of Troy ^ already 
famous in the time of Solomon * tlie ancient 
capital of Egypt 



CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER 



439 



sunless abysses, depths below depths, from 
which it seemed hopeless that I could ever re- 
ascend. Nor did I, by waking, feel that I had 
re-ascended. This I do not dwell upon ; be- 
cause the state of gloom which attended these 
gorgeous spectacles, amounting at last to utter 
darkness, as of some suicidal despondency, 
cannot be approached by words. 

III. The sense of space, and in the end the 
sense of time, were both powerfully affected. 
Buildings, landscapes, etc., were exhibited in 
proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not 
fitted to receive. Space swelled, and was 
amplified to an extent of unutterable infinity. 
This, however, did not disturb me so much 
as the vast expansion of time. I sometimes 
seemed to have lived for seventy or one hun- 
dred years in one night ; nay, sometimes had 
feelings representative of a millennium, passed 
in that time, or, however, of a duration far 
beyond the limits of any human experience. 

IV. The mmutest incidents of childhood, or 
forgotten scenes of later years, were often re- 
vived. I could not be said to recoUect them ; 
for if I had been told of them when waking, 
I should not have been able to acknowledge 
them as parts of my past experience. But 
placed as they were before me, in dreams like 
intuitions, and clothed in aU their evanescent 
circumstances and accompanying feelings, I 
recognised them instantaneously. I was once 
told by a near relative of mine, that having 
in her childhood fallen into a river, and being 
on the very verge of death but for the critical 
assistance which reached her, she saw in a 
moment her whole life, in its minutest inci- 
dents, arrayed before her simtdtaneously as 
in a mirror ; and she had a faculty developed 
as suddenly for comprehending the whole and 
every part. This, from some opium experi- 
ences of mine, I can beheve ; I have, indeed, 
seen the same thing asserted twice in modern 
books, and accompanied by a remark which I 
am convinced is true, namely, that the dread 
book of account, which the Scriptures speak 
of, is, in fact, the mind of each individual. 
Of this, at least, I feel assured, that there is 
no such thing as forgetting possible to the 
mind ; a thousand accidents may and will 
interpose a veil between our present conscious- 
ness and the secret inscriptions on the mind. 
Accidents of the same sort wiU also rend away 
this veil ; but alike, whether veiled or un- 
veiled, the inscription remains forever ; just 
as the stars seem to withdraw before the com- 



mon light of day, whereas, in fact, we all know 
that it is the light which is drawn over them 
as a veil ; and that they are waiting to be re- 
vealed, when the obscuring daylight shall have 
withdrawn. 

Having noticed these four facts as memo- 
rably distinguishing my dreams from those of 
health, I shall now cite a case illustrative of 
the first fact ; and shall then cite any others 
that I remember, either in their chronological 
order, or any other that may give them more 
effect as pictures to the reader. 

I had been in youth, and even since, for 
occasional amusement, a great reader of Livy, 
whom I confess that I prefer, both for style 
and matter, to any other of the Roman his- 
torians ; and I had often felt as most solemn 
and appalling sounds, and most emphatically 
representative of the majesty of the Roman 
people, the two words so often occurring in 
Livy — Consul Romanus ; especially when the 
consul is introduced in his military character. 
I mean to say, that the words king, sultan, 
regent, etc., or any other titles of those who 
embody in their own persons the collective 
majesty of a great people, had less power over 
my reverential feelings. I had, also, though 
no great reader of history, made myself 
minutely and critically familiar with one 
period of English history, namely, the period 
of the Parliamentary War, having been at- 
tracted by the moral grandeur of some who 
figured in that day, and by the many interest- 
ing memoirs which survive those unquiet times. 
Both these parts of m}^ lighter reading, having 
furnished me often with matter of reflection, 
now furnished me with matter for my dreams. 
Often I used to see, after painting upon the 
blank darkness, a sort of rehearsal whilst 
waking, a crowd of ladies, and perhaps a festi- 
val and dances. And I heard it said, or I said 
to m3'^self, "These are Enghsh ladies from the 
vmhappy times of Charles I. These are the 
wives and daughters of those who met in 
peace, and sat at the same tables, and were 
alhed by marriage or by blood; and yet, 
after a certain day in August, 1642,^ never 
smiled upon each other again, nor met but in 
the field of battle ; and at JNIarston IVIoor, at 
Newbury, or at Naseby,^ cut asunder all ties 
of love by the cruel sabre, and washed away 
in blood the memory of ancient friendship." 



^ .^upcust 22, 1642, when the war began 
of the Parliamentary War 



battles 



440 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY 



The ladies danced, and looked as lovely as 
the court of George IV. Yet I knew, even 
in my dream, that they had been in the grave 
for nearly two centuries. This pageant would 
suddenly dissolve ; and, at a clapping _ of 
hands, would be heard the heart-quaking 
sound of Consul Romanus ; and immediately 
came "sweeping by,"^ in gorgeous paluda- 
ments,2 Paulus or Marius,^ girt around by a 
company of centurions, with the crimson tunic 
hoisted on a spear, and followed by the alalag- 
mos * of the Roman legions. 

Many years ago, when I was looking over 
Piranesi's Antiquities of Rome, Mr. Coleridge, 
who was standing by, described to me a set 
of plates by that artist, called 'his Dreams,^ and 
which record the scenery of his own visions 
during the delirium of a fever. Some of them 
(I describe only from memory of Mr. Cole- 
ridge's account) represented vast Gothic halls ; 
on the floor of which stood all sorts of engines 
and machinery, wheels, cables, pulleys, levers, 
catapults, etc., expressive of enormous power 
put forth, and resistance overcome. Creep- 
ing along the sides of the walls, you perceived 
a staircase ; and upon it, groping his way up- 
wards, was Piranesi himself. Follow the stairs 
a Uttle further, and you perceive it to come to 
a sudden, abrupt termmation, without any 
balustrade, and allowing no step onwards to 
him who had reached the extremity, except 
into the depths below. Whatever is to be- 
come of poor Piranesi, you suppose, at least, 
that his labours must in some way terminate 
here. But raise your eyes, and behold a 
second flight of stairs still higher; on which 
again Piranesi is perceived, by this time stand- 
ing on the very brink of the abyss. Again 
elevate your eye, and a still more aerial flight 
of stairs is beheld ; and again is poor Piranesi 
busy on his aspiring labours ; and so on, until 
the unfinished stairs and Piranesi both are lost 
in the upper gloom of the haU. With the same 
power of endless growth and self-reproduction 
did my architecture proceed in dreams. In 
the early stage of my malady, the splendours 
of .my dreams were indeed chiefly architec- 
tural ; and I beheld such pomp of cities and 
palaces as was never yet beheld by the wakmg 
eye, unless in the clouds. From a great 
modern poet I cite the part of a passage which 

^ Cf. // Penseroso, 1. 98. ^ military cloaks 
' two famous consuls and generals ^ noise of the 
war-cries '' There was no such publication. 



describes, as an appearance actually beheld in 
the clouds, what in many of its circumstances 
I saw frequently in sleep : 

The appearance, instantaneously disclosed. 

Was of a mighty city — boldly say 

A wilderness of building, sinking far 

And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth, 

Far sinking into splendour — without end ! 

Fabric it seemed of diamond, and of gold, 

With alabaster domes and silver spires. 

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 

Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright, 

In avenues disposed ; there towers begirt 

With battlements that on their restless fronts 

Bore stars — illumination of aU gems ! 

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought 

Upon the dark materials of the storm 

Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves. 

And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 

The vapours had receded — taking there 

Their station under a cerulean sky, etc., etc.^ 

The sublime circumstance — "battlements 
that on their restless fronts bore stars" — 
might have been copied from my architectural 
dreams, for it often occurred. We hear it re- 
ported of Dryden, and of Fuseli ^ in modern 
times, that they thought proper to eat raw 
meat for the sake of obtaining splendid 
dreams : how much better, for such a purpose, 
to have eaten opium, which yet I do not re- 
member that any poet is recorded to have 
done, except the dramatist Shadwell ; ^ and in 
ancient days, Homer is, I think, rightly re- 
puted to have known the virtues of opium. 

To my architecture succeeded dreams of 
lakes, and silvery expanses of water : these 
haunted me so much, that I feared (though 
possibly it will appear ludicrous to a medical 
man) that some dropsical state or tendency 
of the brain might thus be making itself (to 
use a metaphysical word) objective, and the 
sentient organ project itself as its own object. 
For two months I suffered greatly in my head 
— a part of my bodily structure which had 
hitherto been so clear from aU touch or taint 
of weakness (physically, I mean) , that I used 
to say of it, as the last Lord Orford ■* said of his 
stomach, that it seemed likely to survive the 
rest of my person. TiU now I had never felt 

^ From Wordsworth's Excursion ^ a Swiss 
painter (i 741-1825), who painted many subjects 
from Milton's Paradise Lost ^ a second-rate 
dramatist of the Restoration period ' Horace 
Walpole, a distinguished dilettante (1717-97) 



CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER 



441 



a headache even, or any the slightest pain, 
except rheumatic pains caused by my own 
folly. However, I got over this attack, though 
it must have been verging on something very 
dangerous. 

The waters now changed their character, — 
from translucent lakes, shining like mirrors, 
they now became seas and oceans. And now 
came a tremendous change, which, unfolding 
itself slowly like a scroll, through many 
months, promised an abiding torment ; and, 
in fact, it never left me until the winding up 
of my case. Hitherto the human face had 
often mixed in my dreams, but not despoti- 
cally, nor with any special power of tormenting. 
But now that which I have called the tyranny 
of the human face, began to unfold itself. 
Perhaps some part of my London life might 
be answerable for this. Be that as it may, 
now it was that upon the rocking waters of 
the ocean the human face began to appear; 
the sea appeared paved with innumerable 
faces, upturned to the heavens; faces, im- 
ploring, -ftTathful, despairing, surged upwards 
by thousands, by myriads, by generations, by 
centuries : my agitation was infinite, my mind 
tossed and surged with the ocean. 

May, 1818. — The Malay has been a fear- 
ful enemy for months. I have been every 
night, through his means, transported into 
Asiatic scenes. I know not whether others 
share in my feelings on this point ; but I have 
often thought that if I were compelled to 
forego England, and to live in China, and 
among Chinese manners and modes of life 
and scener>% I should go mad. The causes 
of my horror lie deep, and some of them must 
be common to others. Southern Asia, in 
general, is the seat of awful images and asso- 
ciations. As the cradle of the human race, it 
would alone have a dim and reverential feel- 
ing connected with it. But there are other 
reasons. No man can pretend that the wild, 
barbarous, and capricious superstitions of 
Africa, or of savage tribes elsewhere, affect 
him in the way that he is affected by the 
ancient, monumental, cruel, and elaborate 
religions of Indostan, etc. The mere antiq- 
uity of Asiatic things, of their institutions, 
histories, modes of faith, etc., is so impressive, 
that to me the vast age of the race and name 
overpowers the sense of youth in the indi- 
vidual. A young Chinese seems to me an 
antediluvian man renewed. Even English- 
men, though not bred in any knowledge of 



such institutions, cannot but shudder at the 
mystic sublimity of castes that have flowed 
apart, and refused to mix, through such im- 
memorial tracts of time; nor can any man 
fail to be awed by the names of the Ganges, 
or the Euphrates. It contributes much to 
these feelings, that Southern Asia is, and has 
been for thousands of years, the part of the 
earth most swarming with human life, the 
great officina gentium} Man is a weed in 
those regions. The vast empires, also, into 
which the enormous population of Asia has 
always been cast, give a further sublimity to 
the feelings associated with all oriental names 
or images. In China, over and above what it 
has in common with the rest of Southern 
Asia, I am terrified by the modes of life, by 
the manners, and the barrier of utter abhor- 
rence, and want of sympathy, placed between 
us by feelings deeper than I can analyse. I 
could sooner live with lunatics, or brute ani- 
mals. AU this, and much more than I can 
say, or have time to say, the reader must 
enter into, before he can comprehend the 
ununaginable horror which these dreams of 
oriental imagery, and mythological tortures, 
impressed upon me. Under the connecting 
feeling of tropical heat and vertical sunlights, 
I brought together aU creatures, birds, beasts, 
reptiles, all trees and plants, usages and ap- 
pearances, that are found in aU tropical 
regions, and assembled them together in 
China or Indostan. From kindred feelings, I 
soon brought Egypt and aU her gods under 
the same law. I was stared at, hooted at, 
grinned at, chattered at, by monkeys, by paro- 
quets, by cockatoos. I ran into pagodas, and 
was fixed, for centuries, at the summit, or ia 
secret rooms : I was the idol ; I was the priest ; 
I was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled 
from the wrath of Brama^ through all the 
forests of Asia : Vishnu hated me ; Seeva laid 
wait for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and 
Osiris : ^ I had done a deed, they said, which 
the ibis and the crocodile trembled at. I was 
buried, for a thousand years, in stone coflSns, 
with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow cham- 
bers at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was 
kissed, with cancerous kisses, by crocodiles; 
and laid, confounded with all unutterable 

^ laboratory of the nations ' Brahma, \'ishnu, 
and Siva, Hindu deities embodjHing the creative, 
preservative, and destructive principles ' Cf. 
Milton's Hymn on the Nalmly, U. 212, 213. 



442 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY 



slimy things, amongst reeds and Nilotic 
mud. 

I thus give the reader some slight abstrac- 
tion of my oriental dreams, which always 
filled me with such amazement at the mon- 
strous scenery, that horror seemed absorbed, 
for a whUe, in sheer astonishment. Sooner or 
later came a reflux of feeling that swallowed 
up the astonishment, and left me, not so 
much in terror, as in hatred and abomination 
of what I saw. Over every form, and threat, 
and punishment, and dim sightless incarcera- 
tion, brooded a sense of eternity and iniinity 
that drove me into an oppression as of mad- 
ness. Into these dreams only, it was, with 
one or two slight exceptions, that any circum- 
stances of physical horror entered. All before 
had been moral and spiritual terrors. But 
here the main agents were ugly birds, or 
snakes, or crocodiles, especially the last. The 
cursed crocodile became to me the object of 
more horror than almost aU the rest. I was 
compelled to Uve with him; and (as was 
always the case, almost, in my dreams) for 
centuries. I escaped sometimes, and found 
myself in Chinese houses with cane tables, etc. 
AU the feet of the tables, sofas, etc., soon 
became instinct with life : the abominable 
head of the crocodile, and his leering eyes, 
looked out at me, multiplied into a thousand 
repetitions ; and I stood loathing and fasci- 
nated. And so often did this hideous reptile 
haunt my dreams, that many times the very 
same dream was broken up in the very same 
way : I heard gentle voices speaking to me 
(I hear everything when I am sleeping), and 
instantly I awoke : it was broad noon, and 
my children were standing, hand in hand, at 
my bedside , come to show me their coloured 
shoes, or new frocks, or to let me see them 
dressed for going out. I protest that so awful 
was the transition from the damned crocodile, 
and the other unutterable monsters and abor- 
tions of my dreams, to the sight of innocent 
human natures and of infancy, that, in the 
mighty and sudden revulsion of mind, I wept, 
and could not forbear it, as I kissed their faces. 
June, 1819. ****** 
I thought that it was a Sunday morning in 
May ; that it was Easter Svmday, and as yet 
very early in the morning. I was standing, 
as it seemed to me, at the door of my own 
cottage. Right before me lay the very scene 
which could really be commanded from that 
situation, but exalted, as was usual, and 



solemnised by the power of dreams. There 
were the same mountains, and the same lovely 
vaUey at their feet ; but the mountains were 
raised to more than Alpine height, and there 
was interspace far larger between them of 
meadows and forest lawns ; the hedges were 
rich with white roses ; and no hving creature 
was to be seen, excepting that in the green 
church-yard there were cattle tranquilly repos- 
ing upon the verdant graves, and particularly 
round about the grave of a child whom I had 
tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld 
them, a little before sunrise, in the same 
summer, when that child died. I gazed upon 
the weU-known scene, and I said aloud (as I 
thought) to myself, "It yet wants much of 
sunrise ; and it is Easter Sunday ; and that is 
the day on which they celebrate the first fruits 
of resurrection. I will walk abroad ; old 
griefs shall be forgotten to-day ; for the air 
is cool and still, and the hiUs are high, and 
stretch away to heaven ; and the forest glades 
are as quiet as the church-yard ; and with the 
dew I can wash the fever from my forehead, 
and then I shall be imhappy no longer." And 
I turned, as if to open my garden gate ; and 
immediately I saw upon the left a scene far 
different ; but which yet the power of dreams 
had reconciled into harmony with the other. 
The scene was an oriental one ; and there also 
it was Easter Sunday, and very early in the 
morning. And at a vast distance were visible, 
as a stain upon the horizon, the domes and 
cupolas of a great city — an image or faint 
abstraction, caught, perhaps, in childhood, 
from some picture of Jerusalem. And not a 
bow-shot from me, upon a stone, and shaded 
by Judean palms, there sat a woman ; and I 
looked, and it was — Ann ! ^ She fixed her 
eyes upon me earnestly ; and I said to her, 
at length, "So, then, I have found you, at 
last." I waited ; but she answered me not a 
word. Her face was the same as when I saw 
it last, and yet, again, how dift'erent ! Seven- 
teen years ago, when the lamp-light feU upon 
her face, as for the last time I kissed her lips 
(lips, Ann, that to me were not polluted!), 
her eyes were streaming with tears ; — her 
tears were now wiped away ; ^ she seemed more 
beautiful than she was at that time, but in 
aU other points the same, and not older. Her 

^ a poor girl who had befriended him when 
he ran away from school and came to London 
^ Cf. Revelation, vii: 17 and xxi: 4. 



LORD BYRON 



443 



looks were tranquil, but with unusual solem- 
nity of expression, and I now gazed upon her 
with some awe; but suddenly her counte- 
nance grew dim, and, turning to the mountains, 
I perceived vapours rolling between us ; in a 
moment, all had vanished; thick darkness 
came on ; and in the twinkling of an eye I 
was far away from moimtains, and by lamp- 
light in Oxford-street, walking again with Ann 
— just as we walked seventeen years before, 
when we were both children. 

As a final specimen, I cite one of a different 
character, from 1820. 

The dream commenced with a music which 
now I often heard in dreams — a music of 
preparation and of awakening suspense ; a 
music like the opening of the Coronation- 
Anthem,^ and which, Hke that, gave the feehng 
of a vast rriarch, of infinite cavalcades filing 
off, and the tread of innimierable armies. 
The niorning was come of a mighty day — a 
day of crisis and of final hope for human 
nature, then suffering some mysterious eclipse, 
and laboiuring in some dread extremity. 
Somewhere, I knew not where — somehow, 
I knew not how — by some beings, I knew not 
whom — a battle, a strife, an agony, was con- 
ducting, — was evolving like a great drama, 
or piece of music ; with which my sympathy 
was the more insupportable from my confusion 
as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its 
possible issue. I, as is usual in dreams (where, 
of necessity, we make ourselves central to 
every movement), had the power, and yet 
had not the power, to decide it. I had the 
power, if I could raise myself, to will it ; and 
yet again had not the power, for the weight of 
twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the oppres- 
sion of inexpiable guilt. "Deeper than ever 
plummet sounded," ^ I lay inactive. Then, like 
a chorus, the passion deepened. Some greater 
interest was at stake; some mightier cause 
than ever yet the sword had pleaded, or trum- 
pet had proclaimed. Then came sudden 
alarms ; hurr>'ings to and fro ; trepidations of 
innumerable fugitives. I knew not whether 
from the good cause or the bad ; darkness and 
Hghts ; tempest and human faces ; and at last, 
with the sense that all was lost, female forms, 
and the features that were worth all the world 
to me, and but a moment allowed, — and 

* The music was written in 1727 by Handel 
for the coronation of George II. ^ Cf. The Tem- 
pest, III, iii, loi. 



clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, 
and then — everlasting farewells ! and, with 
a sigh, such as the caves of heU sighed when 
the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred 
name of death,^ the sound was reverberated — 
everlasting farewells! and again, and yet 
again reverberated — everlasting farewells ! 

And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud 
— "T will sleep no more!" 



GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD 
BYRON (i 788-1824) 

From ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH 
REVIEWERS 



A man must serve his time to every trade, 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney 'd jokes from Miller ,2 got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote ; 66 
A mind weU skiU'd to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey * go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : 
Fear not to he, 'twiU seem a lucky hit ; 71 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit : 
Care not for feehng — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we ov.^n such judgment ? no — as 
soon 
Seek roses in December, ice in June ; 
Hope constancy m wind, or corn in chaff, 
Believe a woman, or an epitaph. 
Or any other thing that's false, before 
You trust in critics who themselves are sore ; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 81 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's •* Boeotian heaid.* 



Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling 
crew. 
For notice eager, pass in long review ; 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace. 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race, 

^ Par. Lost, II, 648-814. ^ Joe Aliller's Jest- 
book, pub. 1730 and many times reprinted — 
proverbial for stale jokes ^ Francis Lord Jeffrey, 
editor of the Edinburgh Review ■* Byron said : 
"Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the Alpha and 
Omega of the Edinburgh Review." ^The Boeotians 
were proverbial for stupidity. 



444 



LORD BYRON 



Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 141 
And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
Immeasurable measures ^ move along ; 
For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 
To strange mysterious Dullness stUl the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the 

last! 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the 

blast. 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites. 
That dames may Usten to their sound at 

night ; 
And goblin brats of Gilpin Horner's brood,^ 151 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood. 
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high. 
And frighten fooUsh babes, the Lord knows 

why; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell. 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave. 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 
Next view in state, proud prancing on his 
roan. 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 160 
Now forging scroUs, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace — 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit per- 
chance, 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his MUler ^ may combine 
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per Une ? 
No! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 171 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
Low may they sink to merited contempt, 
And scorn remunerate the mean attempt! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son. 
And bid a long "good night to Marmion."* 
These are the themes that claim our plau- 
dits now ; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must 
bow: . 180 

^ A jibe at the metres of Scott, Coleridge, etc. 
^ Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel was suggested by 
a folk-tale of a goblin called Gilpin Horner. 
^ Constable, Murray, and Miller were Scott's 
publishers. * Originally spoken with sorrow by 
Henry Blount on reading the death of Marmion 



While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 



With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 195 
Behold the ballad monger, Southey, rise ! 
To him let Camoens,^ Milton, Tasso,^ yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the 

field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc ^ advance. 
The scourge of England; and the boast of 

France ! 200 

Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche. 
Her fetters burst, and just released from 

prison, 
A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba^ come on, 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son ; 
Domdaniel's^ dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! aU thy foes o'ercome. 
Forever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face, 211 
WeU wert thou doom'd the last of aU thy race ! 
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
Now, last and greatest, Madoc^ spreads his 

sa;ils, 
Cacique ^ in Mexico, and Prince in Wales ; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 
Oh .' Southey, Southey ! cease thy varied 

song! 
A Bard may chaunt too often and too long : 2 20 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare ! 
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
Thou stiU wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 
If still in Berkley ballads,® most uncivil. 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, 
The babe unborn thy dread mtent may rue; 
"God help thee," Southey, and thy readers 

too. 
Next comes the duU disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 230 

^ a famous Portuguese epic .poet (1524-80) 
^ a famous Italian epic poet (1544-95) ^ epics by 
Southey * a seminary for evil magicians held in a 
cave in Arabia; its destruction is the theme of 
Thalaba ^ chief « " The Old Woman of Berkley, 
a ballad by Southey, wherein an aged gentle- 
woman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a 'high- 
trotting horse.' " — Byron's note. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



445 



The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay- 
As soft as evening in his favourite May ; 
Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and 

trouble ; 
And quit his books, for fear of growmg 

double;" 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose, 
Convincing all, bj^ demonstration plain, 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
And Christmas stories, tortured into rhyme. 
Contain the essence of the true subUme : 240 
Thus when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy ;" 
A moon-struck silly lad who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
And each adventure so sublimely teUs, 
That aU who view the "idiot in his glory," 
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? 250 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best. 
Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a Pixy for a Muse,'^ 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
How well the subject suits his noble mind ! 
"A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind !" 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

THE FAREWELL: From CANTO I 

Oh, thou! in HeUas deem'd of heavenly 

birth. 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's 

will! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth. 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred 

hiU; 
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted 
. riU; 
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted 

shrine, 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is stUl; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 8 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of 

mine. 

^ In Songs of the Pixies; one of tlie poems is 
entitled To a Young Ass. 



Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take dehght ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth. 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of 

Night. 
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie 1 7 
And flaunting wassaUers of high and low de- 
gree. 

Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence 

his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye. 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor aU that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide 
sun, 28 

Disporting there like any other fly. 

Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
• One blast might chill him into misery. 

But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 

Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 

He felt the fuUness of satiety : 

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell. 

Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's 

sad cell. 36 

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run. 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but 

one, 
And that lov'd one, alas, could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose 

kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar 

bliss. 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his 

waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to 

taste. 45 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at 

heart. 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the suUen tear would 

start, 



446 



LORD BYRON 



But Pride congeal'd the drop within his e'e ; 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolv'd to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea : 
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for 

woe, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the 

shades below. 54 

The Childe departed from his father's hall ; 

It was a vast and venerable pile ; 

So old, it seemed only not to fall, 

Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 

Monastic dome! condemn 'd to uses vile! 

Where Superstition once had made her den, 

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and 

smile; 6i 

And monks might deem their time Avas come 

agen. 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy 



Yet ofttimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe 

Harold's brow. 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to 

know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow; 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could 

not control. 72 

And none did love him — though to hall and 

bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea! none did love him — not his lemans 

dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care. 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by 

glare, 80 

And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs 

might despair. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot. 
Though parting from that mother he did 

shun : 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none, 



Yet deem not thence his l^reast a breast of 

steel ; 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly 

hope to heal. 90 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight. 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy 

hands. 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's 

central line. 

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds 

blew, 100 

As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his 

view. 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam ; 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 105 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did 

come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and 

wept. 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning 

kept. 

But when the sun was sinking in the ^ea, 
He seized his harp, which he at times could 
string, no 

And strike, albeit with untaught melody. 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listen- 
ing ; 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twihght. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from liis sight. 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good 
Night." 117 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The night -winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee. 



My native land — Good night 



125 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



447 



A few short hours, and he will rise, 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall. 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall. 

My dog howls at the gate. 133 



And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea ; 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again 

He'd tear me where he stands. 189 

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! 

And when you fail my sight. 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 

My native land — Good night ! 197 



WATERLOO: From CANTO III 

There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Belgium's capital had gather 'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave 

men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake 

again. 
And all went merry as a marriage bell ; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a 

rising knell ! 189 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the 
wind. 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 

On •with, the dance ! let joy be imconfined ; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleas- 
ure meet 

To chase the glowing Hours with flying 
feet. — 

But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once 
more, 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 



And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's open- 



mg roar 



Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did 

hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic 

ear, 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it 

near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could 
quell. 206 

He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fight- 
ing, fell. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and 
fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis- 
tress. 

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 

Blush'd at the praise of their own loveli- 
ness ; 

And there were sudden partings, such as 
press 

The life from out young hearts, and chok- 
ing sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated : who could 
guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn 

coidd rise ! 216 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the 

steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering 

car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thimder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror 

dumb. 
Or whispering with white lips — "The foe! 

They come ! they come !" 225 

And wild and high the "Cameron's Gather- 
ing" rose. 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon 
foes; 



448 



LORD BYRON 



How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath 

which fills 
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings m each clans- 
man's ears ! 234 

And Ardennes waves above them her green 

leaves, 
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass. 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall 

grow 
In its next verdm-e, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder 

cold and low. 243 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of 

strife. 
The morn the marshalling in arms — the 

day 
Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when 

rent 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and 

pent, 
Rider and horse — friend, foe, — in one red 

burial blent ! 252 

MAN AND NATURE: From CANTO III 

Lake Leman ^ woos me with its crystal face. 
The mirror where the stars and mountains 

view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and 

hue ; 
There is too much of man here, to look 

through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than 

of old. 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in 

their fold. 612 

^ Lake Geneva 



To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fotmtain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the 

spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil. 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
'Midst a contentious world, striving where 

none are strong. 621 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our 

years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, 
And colour things to come with hues of 

Night : 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness ; on the sea 
The boldest steer but where their ports in- 
vite. 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd 
ne'er shall be. 630 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear. 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to in-' 
flictorbear? 639 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me : and to me. 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture ; I can see 
Nothing to loathe in Nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 645 

Class'd among creatures, when the soul can 

flee. 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving 
plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife. 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast. 
To act and suft'er, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



449 



Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the 

blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted 

wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our 

being cling. 657 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all 

free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each 
spot? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the im- 
mortal lot? 666 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a 

part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these? and 

stem 
A tide of suffering rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly 

phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which 

dare not glow? 675 

ROME: From CANTO IV 

O Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee. 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance? Come 

and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your 

way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, — 

Ye! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 702 

The Niobe ^ of nations ! there she stands. 
Childless and crownlcss in her voiceless woe ; 
An empty urn within her wither'd hands, 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 



The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her 
distress. 711 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, 

and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's 

pride : 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car ^ climb 'd the Capitol ; far and 

wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a 

site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, "Here was, or is," where all is 

doubly night ? 720 

LOVE: From CANTO IV 

Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, — 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see, 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be : 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled 

heaven. 
Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
And to a thought such shape and image 

given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — 

wearied — wrung — and riven. 1089 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
And fevers into false creation ; — where. 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath 

seized ? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we 

dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair. 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. 
And overpowers the page where it would 

bloom again? 1098 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — 

but the cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 



' The children of Niobe were slain by Apollo. 



^ chariot 



45° 



LORD BYRON 



Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the 

mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown 

winds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. 
Seems ever near the prize — - wealthiest when 

most undone. 1107 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; unfoimd the boon — • unslaked 

the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at 

first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the 

same — 
Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the 

flame. 1116 

Few — none — find what they love or could 

have loved : 
Though accident, blind contact, and the 

strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust — the dust 

we all have trod. 11 25 

MAN AND NATURE: From CANTO IV 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place 
With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be 
our lot. 1593 



{ 



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
There is society where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 



I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 1601 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con- 
ceal. ] 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — 
roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 

Man marks the earth with ruin — his con- 
trol 

Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery 
plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth re- 
main 

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 

When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 
groan. 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and 
vmknown, 161 1 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy 

fields 
Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength 

he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all de- 
spise. 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 

spray. 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth — there let 
him lay. 1620 

The armaments which thunderstrike the 

walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and^ as the snowy 

flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which 

mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafal- 

gar.i 

^ The uninjured ships of the Armada are con- 
trasted with those broken in the battle of Tra- 
falgar. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 



451 



Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 

thee — 1630 

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 

they? 
Thy waters washed them power while they 

were free, 
And many a tyrant since : their shores obey 
The stranger, slave or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so 

thou. 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' 

play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 

brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest 

now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 

form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time, 1640 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or 

storm, 
Icing the pole, or m the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — ■ boundless, endless, and 

sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each 
zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathom- 
less, alone. 1647 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a 

boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do 

here. 1656 

SONNET ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons. Liberty ! thou art. 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 

gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyr- 
dom, 



And Freedom's fame finds wings on every 

wind. 
Chillon ! ^ thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 

Until his very steps have left a trace 1 1 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 

By Bonnivard ! May none those marks 

efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 

My hair is gray, but not from years ; 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose. 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 10 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death : 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven — who now are one ; 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begim, 

Proud of Persecution's rage ; 20 

One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; — 
Three were in a dungeon cast. 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon 's dungeon deep and old ; 
There are seven columns, massy and gray. 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 30 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left : 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 

^ The castle of Chillon covers a huge rock at 
the eastern end of Lake Geneva (Lake Leman). 



452 



LORD BYRON 



With marks that will not wear away, 40 

Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone, 

And we were three — yet each alone ; 

We could not move a single pace, 50 

We could not see each other's face. 

But with that pale and livid light 

That made us strangers in oiu" sight : 

And thus together — yet apart, 

Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 

'Twas still some solace in the dearth 

Of the pme elements of earth, 

To hearken to each other's speech. 

And each turn comforter to each, 

With some new hope, or legend old, 60 

Or song heroically bold ; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 

An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free, 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy — • but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

I was the eldest of the three ; 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 

I ought to do — and did — my best, 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, — 

For him my soul was sorely moved. 
And truly might it be distress 'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 

(When day was beautiful to me 80 

As to young eagles, being free) — 

A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for naught but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 90 

Which he abhorr'd to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 100 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hUls, 

Had foUow'd there the deer and wolf ; 

To him this dimgeon was a gulf. 
And fetter'd feet the worst of Uls. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom line was sent no 

From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 

Which round about the wave enthralls : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 121 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd. 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 

I said his mighty heart declined, 

He loathed and put away his food : 

It was not that 'twas coarse and rude. 

For we were used to hunters' fare, 130 

And for the like had little care : 

The milk drawn from the moimtain goat 

Was changed for water from the moat ; 

Our bread was such as captives' tears 

Have moisten 'd many a thousand years, 

Since man first pent his fellow-men 

Like brutes within an iron den ; 

But what were these to us or him? 

These wasted not his heart or limb ; 

My brother's soul was of that mould 140 

Which in a palace had grown cold, 

Had his free-breathing been denied 

The range of the steep mountain's side. 

But why delay the truth? — he died. 

I saw, and could not hold his head, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 



453 



Nor reach his d)ang hand — nor dead — ■ 

Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 

To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 

He died — and they unlock'd his chain 

And scoop 'd for him a shallow grave 150 

Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 

His corse in dust whereon the day 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 

But then within my brain it wrought, 

That even in death his free-born breast 

In such a dungeon could not rest. 

I might have spared my idle prayer — 

They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 

The fiat and turlless earth above 160 

The being we so much did love ; 

His empty chain above it leant, 

Such murder's litting monument ! 

But he, the favourite and the flower, 

Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 170 

Less wretched now, and one day free ; 

He, too, who yet had held mitired 

A spirit natural or inspired — ■ 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was wither'd on the stalk away. 

O God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180 

Strive with a swoU'n convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such, — but sure and slow : 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender, — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a- cheek whose bloom 190 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright. 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot ! 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 



In this last loss, of all the most : 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I hsten'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 

And rush'd to him ; — I found him not ; 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last, — the sole, — the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink 

Which bound me to my failing race. 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breath : 

I took that hand which lay so still ; 221 

Alas, my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, v/hen we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die ; 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 230 

What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew : — 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — ; none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone. 
And was scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray. 
It was not night — it was not day ; 240 

It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space. 
And fixedness, without a place : 
There were no stars, — no earth, — no time, — 
No check, — no change, — no good, — no 

crime, — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 

A light broke in upon my brain — 
It was the carol of a bird ; 



454 



LORD BYRON 



It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
And mine was thankfiil, till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 260 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done. 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, mth azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seem'd to say them all for me! 270 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again. 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird, I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought, the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile — 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 290 
For he would never thus have flown. 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone, — as the corse within its shroud ; 
Lone, — - as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day. 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue and earth is gay. 



A kind of change came in my fate, 
M3' keepers grew compassionate : 
I know not Avhat had made them so, 
They were inured to sights of woe ; 
But so it was — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 



300 



320 



Along my cell from side to side. 

And up and down, and then athwart, 

And tread it over every part ; 

And round the pillars one by one, 310 

Returning where my walk begun. 

Avoiding only, as I trod, 

My brothers' graves without a sod ; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My step profaned their lowly bed, 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, 

And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 

I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all 
Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad. 
For thought of them had ^ made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 330 
The quiet of a loving eye. 

I saw them — and they were the same, 

They were not changed like me in frame ; 

I saw their thousand years of snow 

On high — their wide long lake below, 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 

I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 

And whiter sails go skimming down ; 340 

And then there was a little isle, 

Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view : 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor ; 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 350 

The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous, each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 

^ would have 



ODE 



455 



I had not left my recent chain ; 

And when I did descend again, 

The darkness of my dim abode 360 

Fell on me as a heavy load ; 

It was as is a new-dug grave, 

Closing o'er one we sought to save. 

And yet my glance, too much opprest, 

Had ahnost need of such a rest. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 370 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. 
And thus, when they appear'd at last. 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 380 

With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, , 

Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! ', 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 390 

To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain 'd my freedom with a sigh. 

ODE 

I 

Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee. 
What should thy sons do ? — any thing but 

weep : 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the 

sHme, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are they to those that were; and thus they 
creep, 12 



Crouching and crab-hke, through their sap- 
ping streets. 
Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred j^ears 
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; 
And every monument the stranger meets. 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears, 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 2 1 
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all' musical to song, 
That heaved beneath the moonhght with the 

throng 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinfid deeds 
Were but the overheating of tshe heart, 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 30 
Of sweet sensations battHng with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors. 
The v/eeds of nations in their last decay. 
When vice walks forth with her imsoften'd 

terrors, 
And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
And hope is nothing but a false delay, 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere 

death, 
When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
Of the cold staggermg race which death is 

mnning, 40 

Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; 
Yet so reheving the o'ertortured clay. 
To him appears renewal of his breath. 
And freedom the mere numbness of his 

chain ; — 
And then he talks of hfe, and how again 
He feels his spirit soaring, albeit weak, 
And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 
And so the fihn comes o'er him — and the 

dizzy 50 

Chamber swims roimd and round — and 

shadows busy. 
At which he. vainly catches, flit and gleam. 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream. 
And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 

II 

There is no hope for nations ! Search the page 
Of many thousand years — the daily scene. 



456 



LORD BYRON 



The flow and ebb of each recurring age, 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us nought or httle : still we 

lean 60 

On things that rot beneath oixr weight, and 

wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; 
For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the 

beasts 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go 
Even where their driver goads them, though 

to slaughter. 
Ye men, who poiir your blood for kings as 

water. 
What have they given your children in return ? 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage where your hire is blows. 
What? do not yet the red-hot ploughshares 

burn, 71 

O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, 
And deem this proof of loyalty the real; 
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? 
AU that your sires have left you, all that time 
Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime, 
Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and 

read. 
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and 

bleed ! 
Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, 80 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes en- 

gender'd 
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters 

tender'd. 
Gushing from freedom's fountains — when 

the crowd. 
Madden 'd with centuries of drought, are loud, 
And trample on each other to obtain 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they 

plough'd 
The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow 

grain, 
'Twas not for them, their necks were too 

much bow'd, 90 

And their dead palates chew'd the cud of 

pain : — ■ 
Yes ! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the 

cause 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, 

smite 



But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for 
thee! 

Ill 

Glory and empire ! once upon these towers 

With freedom — godlike triad ! how ye sate ! 

The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 

When Venice was an envy, might abate. 

But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate 

AU were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs 

knew 
And loved their hostess, nor could learn 

to hate. 
Although they humbled — with the kingly 

few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship ; — even her 

crimes no 

Were of the softer order — born of love, 
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, 
But gladden 'd where her harmless conquests 

spread ; 
For these restored the cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which in- 
cessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy crescent. 
Which, if it waned and dwindled, earth may 

thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common woe. 
And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering 

foe, — 122 

But knows what all — and, most of all, we 

know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 

IV 

The name of commonwealth is past and gone 
O'er the three fractions of the groaning 
globe ; 
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For tyranny of late is cunning grown, 131 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparldes of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whose vigorous ofl'spring by dividing ocean, 



so, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING 



457 



Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, 

and 
Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand. 
And proud distmction from each other land, 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's 

motion, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 140 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance. 
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime. 
Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
Her Esau-brethren ^ that the haughty flag. 
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag. 
May strike to those whose red right hands 

have bought 
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. StiU, stUl, 

forever 
Better, though each man's life-blood were a 

river, 149 

That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damn'd like the duU canal with locks and 

chains. 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep. 
Three paces, and then faltermg : — better be 
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free. 
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the 

deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
One freeman more, America, to thee! 160 



KNOW YE THE LAND? 

Know ye the land where the cypress and 

myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their 

clime ? 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the 

turtle,- 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to 

crime ? 
Know ye the. land of the cedar and vine. 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams 

ever shine ; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd 

with perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of GuP in her 

bloom ; 

^ Those who have sold their birth-right, Liberty. 
^ dove ^ the rose 



Where the citron and olive are fairest of 

fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is 

mute : 10 

Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of 

the sky. 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they 

twine. 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the 

Sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children 

have done? 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales 

which they teU. 19 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus meUow'd to that tender light ; 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 

Or softly lightens o'er her face ; k 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear, their dweUing-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! li 



SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING 

So, we'll go no more a rovmg 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath, 5 

And the soul wears out the breast. 

And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 



458 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



Though the night was made for loving, 
And the day returns too soon, lo 

Yet we'll go no more a roving 
By the light of the moon. 



CHARLES WOLFE (1791-1823) 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 
AT CORUNNA 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 4 

We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
The sods with our bayonets turning ; 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 8 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him, 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak aroiind him. 12 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was 
dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 16 

We thought as we hoUowed his narrow bed. 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
his head. 
And we far away on the billow ! 20 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he'U reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 24 

But half of our weary task was done 

When the clock struck the hoiur for retiring ; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 28 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a 
stone — 
But we left him alone with his glory. 32 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

(1792-1822) 

FromALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF 
SOLITUDE 

Nondum amabam, at amare amabam, quserebam 
quid amarem, amans amare,^ 

— Confess. St. August. 

There was a Poet whose untimety tomb 50 
No human hands with pious reverence reared, 
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds 
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid 
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilder- 
ness : — . 
A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden 
decked 55 

With weeping flowers, or votive cypress 

wreath. 
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep : — 
Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no lorn 

bard 
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious 

sigh : 
He lived, he died, he simg, in sohtude. 60 
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate 

notes. 
And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined 
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. 
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn. 
And Silence, too enamoured of that voice, 65 
Locks its m-ute music in her rugged cell. 

By solemn vision, and bright silver dream, 
His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 
And sound from the vast earth and ambient 

air, 
Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. 70 

The fountains of divine philosophy 
Fled not his thirstmg lips, and all of great. 
Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past 
In truth or fable consecrates, he felt 
And knew. When early youth had passed, 

he left 75 

His cold fireside and alienated home 
To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. 
Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness 
Has lured his fearless steps; and he has 

bought 
With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage 

men, 80 

^ I was not .vet in love, and I was in love with 
love, I was seeking what I might love, loving love. 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY 



459 



His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps 

He like her shadow has pursued, where'er 

The red volcano overcanopies 

Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice 

With burning smoke, or where bitumen 

lakes 85 

On black bare pointed islets ever beat 
With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves 
Rugged and dark, windmg among the springs 
Of fire and poison, inaccessible 
To avarice or pride, their starry domes 90 
Of diamond and of gold expand above 
Numberless and immeasurable halls. 
Frequent with crystal column, and clear 

shrines 
Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite. 
Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 95 

Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven 
And the green earth, lost in his heart its 

claims 
To love and wonder ; he would linger long 
In lonesome vales, making the wild his home, 
Until the doves and squirrels would partake 
From his innocuous hand his bloodless food. 
Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks, 102 
And the wUd antelope, that starts whene'er 
The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend 
Her timid steps to gaze upon a form 105 

More graceful than her own. 

His wandering step, 
Obedient to high thoughts, has visited 
The awful ruins of the days of old : 
Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec,^ and the waste 
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers no 
Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, 
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of 

strange 
Sculptured on alabaster obelisk, 
Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphinx, 
Dark .•Fthiopia in her desert hills 115 

Conceals. Among the ruined temples there. 
Stupendous columns, and wild images 
Of more than man, where marble daemons 

watch 
The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men 
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls 

around, 120 

He lingered, poring on memorials 
Of the world's youth, through the long burn- 
ing day 
Gazed on those speechless shapes, nor, when 

the moon 

^ Baalbec, an ancient Syrian city, sacred to the 
worship of Baal, the sun god 



Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades. 
Suspended he that task, but ever gazed i 5 
And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind 
Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw 
The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. 



HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY 

The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
Floats though unseen amongst us, — 

visiting 
This various world with as inconstant wing 
As summer winds that creep from flower to 

flower ; — 
Like moonbeams that behind some piny 
mountain shower,^ 5 

It visits with inconstant glance 
Each human heart and countenance ; 
Like hues and harmonies of evening, — 

Like clouds in starlight widely spread, — 
Lilce memory of music fled, — 10 

Like aught that for its grace may be 
Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 

Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 
With thine own hues aU thou dost shine 

upon 
Of human thought or form, — Avhere art 
thou gone ? 1 5 

Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, 
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and 
desolate ? 
Ask why the sunlight not forever 
Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain 
river. 
Why aught should fafl and fade that once is 
shown, 20 

Why fear and dream and death and birth 
Cast on the daylight of this earth 
Such gloom, — why man has such a scope 
For love and hate, despondency and hope? 

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever 
To sage or poet these responses given — 26 
Therefore the names of Daemon, Ghost, and 
Heaven, 
Remain the records of their vain endeavour. 
Frail spells — whose uttered charm might not 
avail to sever, 
From all we hear and all we see, 30 

Doubt, chance, and mutability. 

^ Observe that "shower" is a verb. 



460 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



Thy light alone — like mist o'er mountains 
driven, 
Or music by the night wind sent, 
Through strings of some still instrument. 
Or moonhght on a midnight stream, 35 

Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. 

Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds 
depart 
And come, for some uncertain moments 

lent. 
Man were immortal, and omnipotent, 39 
Didst thou, tmknown and awful as thou art. 
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within 
his heart. 
Thou messenger of sympathies. 
That wax and wane in lovers' eyes — 
Thou — that to human thought art nourish- 
ment. 
Like darkness to a dying flame! 45 

Depart not as thy shadow came. 
Depart not — lest the grave should be, 
Like Hfe and fear, a dark reality. 

WhUe yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 
Through many a hstening chamber, cave 
and ruin, 50 

And starlight wood, with fearfvil steps 
pursuing 
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. 
I called on poisonous names with which our 
youth is fed, 
I was not heard — I saw them not — 
When musing deeply on the lot 55 

Of life, at the sweet time when winds are 
wooing 
AU vital things that wake to bring 
News of birds and blossoming, — 
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ; 
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy ! 

I vowed that I would dedicate my powers 61 
To thee and thine — have I not kept the 

vow? 
With beating heart and streaming eyes, 
even now 
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
Each from his voiceless grave : they have in 
visioned bower 65 

Of studious zeal or love's delight 
Outstretched with me the envious 
night — 
They know that never joy illumed my brow 
Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst 
free 



This world from its dark slavery, 70 

That thou — O awful Loveliness, 
Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot 
express. 

The day becomes more solemn and serene 
When noon is past — there is a harmony 
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, 75 

Which through the summer is not heard or 

seen, 
As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 
Thus let thy power, which hke the truth 
Of nature on my passive youth 
Descended, to my onward life supply 80 

Its calm — to one who worships thee, 
And every form containing thee, 
Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind 
To fear himself, and love aU human kind. 

SONNET 

OZYMANDIAS 

I met a traveller from an antique land 

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of 

stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, 
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose 

frown. 
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet s\u-vive, (stamped on these life- 
less things,) 7 
The hand that mocked them and the heart 

that fed : 
And on the pedestal these words appear : 
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 10 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! " 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare . 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

From LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE 
EUGANEAN HILLS 

Many a green isle needs must be 

In the deep wide sea of misery. 

Or the mariner, worn and wan. 

Never thus could voyage on 

Day and night, and night and day, 5 

Drifting on his dreary way. 

With the solid darkness black 

Closing round his vessel's track ; 

Whilst, above, the sunless sky, 

Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 10 



LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS 



461 



And behind, the tempest fleet 

Hurries on with Ughtning feet, 

Riving sail, and cord, and plank, 

Till the ship has almost drank 

Death from the o'er-brimming deep ; 15 

And sinks down, down, like that sleep 

When the dreamer seems to be 

Weltering through eternity ; 

And the dim Ioav line before 

Of a dark and distant shore 20 

Still recedes, as ever still 

Longing with divided will. 

But no power to seek or shim, 

He is ever drifted on 

O'er the unreposing wave 25 

To the haven of the grave. 

What if there no friends will greet ; 

What if there no heart will meet 

His with love's impatient beat ; 

Wander wheresoe'er he may, 30 

Can he dream before that day 

To find refuge from distress 

In friendship's smile, in love's caress? 



Lo, the sun floats up the sky 

Like thought-winged Liberty, 

Till the miiversal light 

Seems to level plain and height ; 

From the sea a mist has spread, 210 

And the beams of morn he dead 

On the towers of Venice now. 

Like its glory long ago. 

By the skirts of that gray cloud 

Many-domed Padua proud 215 

Stands, a peopled solitude, 

'Mid the harvest-shining plain, 

Where the peasant heaps his grain 

In the garner of his foe, 

And the milk-white oxen slow 220 

With the purple vintage strain, 

Heaped upon the creaking wain, 

That the brutal Celt may swill 

Drunken sleep with savage will ; 

And the sickle to the sword 225 

Lies imchanged, though many a lord, 

Like a weed whose shade is poison. 

Overgrows this region's foison, 

Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 

To destruction's harvest home : 230 

Men must reap the things they sow. 

Force from force must ever flow, 

Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe 

That love or reason cannot change 

The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 235 



Padua, thou within whose walls 

Those mute guests at festivals, 

Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 

Played at dice for Ezzelin, 

Till Death cried, "I win, I win! ", 240 

And Sin cursed to lose the v/ager, 

But Death promised, to assuage her. 

That he would petition for 

Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 

When the destined years were o'er, 245 

Over all between the Po 

And the eastern Alpine snow. 

Under the mighty Austrian. 

Sin smiled so as Sin only can. 

And since that time, aye, long before, 250 

Both have ruled from shore to shore. 

That incestuous pair, who follow 

Tyrants as the sun the swallow. 

As" Repentance follows Crime, 

And as changes follow Time. 255 

In thine halls the lamp of learning, 

Padua, now no more is burning ; 

Like a meteor, whose wild way 

Is lost over the grave of day. 

It gleams betrayed and to betray: 260 

Once remotest nations came 

To adore that sacred flame, 

When it lit not many a hearth 

On this cold and gloomy earth : 

Now new fires from antique light 265 

Spring beneath the wide world's might ; 

But their spark lies dead in thee, 

Trampled out by tyranny. 

As the Norway woodman quells. 

In the depth of piny dells, 270 

One light flame among the brakes. 

While the boundless forest shakes. 

And its mighty trunks are torn 

By the fire thus lowly born : 

The spark beneath his feet is dead, 275 

He starts to see the flames it fed 

Howling through the darkened sky 

With a myriad tongues victoriously, 

And sinks down in fear : so thou, 

O Tyranny, beholdest now 280 

Light aromid thee, and thou hearest 

The loud flames ascend, and fearest : 

Grovel on the earth: aye, hide 

In the dust thy purple pride ! 

Noon descends around me now : 285 

'Tis the noon of autumn's glow. 
When a soft and purple mist 
Like a vaporous amethyst, 



462 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



Or an air-dissolved star 

Mingling light and fragrance, far 290 

From the curved horizon's bound 

To the point of heaven's profotmd, 

Fills the overflowing sky ; 

And the plains that silent lie 

Underneath, the leaves unsodden 295 

Where the infant frost has trodden 

With his morning-winged feet, 

Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 

And the red and golden vines. 

Piercing with their trellised hues 300 

The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 

The dun and bladed grass no less, 

Pointing from this hoary tower 

In the windless air ; the flower 

GUmmering at my feet ; the line 305 

Of the olive-sandalled Apennine 

In the south dimly islanded ; 

And the Alps, whose snows are spread 

High between the clouds and sun ; 

And of living things each one ; 310 

And my spirit v^hich so long 

Darkened this swift stream of song, 

Interpenetrated he 

By the glory of the sky : 

Be it love, light, harmony, 315 

Odour, or the soifl of all 

Which from heaven like dew doth fall, 

Or the mind which feeds this verse 

Peopling the lone universe. 

Noon descends, and after noon 320 

Autumn's evening meets me soon, 

Leading the infantine moon, 

And that one star, which to her 

Almost seems to minister 

Half the crimson light she brings 325 

From the sunset's radiant springs : 

And the soft dreams of the morn, 

(Which like winged winds had borne 

To that silent isle, which lies 

'Mid remembered agonies, 330 

The frail bark of this lone bemg,) 

Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, 

And its ancient pilot. Pain, 

Sits beside the helm again. 



Other flowering isles must be 

In the sea of hfe and agony : 

Other spirits float and flee 

O'er that gulph : even now, perhaps, 

On some rock the wild wave wraps, 

With folded wings they waiting sit 

For my bark, to pilot it 

To some calm and blooming cove, 



335 



340 



Where for me, and those I love. 
May a windless bower be built, 
Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 345 

In a dell 'mid lawny hiUs, 
Which the wild sea-murmur fills, 
And soft sunshine, and the sound 
Of old forests echoing round. 
And the light and smell divine 350 

Of all flowers that breathe and shine : 
We may live so happy there, 
. That the spirits of the air, 
Envying us, may even entice 
To our healing paradise 355 

The polluting multitude ; 
But their rage would be subdued 
By that clime divine and calm, 
And the winds whose wings rain balm 
On the uplifted soul, and leaves 360 

Under which the bright sea heaves ; 
While each breathless interval 
In their whisperings musical 
The inspired soul supphes 
With its own deep melodies, 365 

And the love which heals all strife 
Circling, like the breath of life. 
All things in that sweet abode 
With its own mild brotherhood : 
They, not it, would change; and soon 370 
Every sprite beneath the moon 
Would repent its envy vain, 
And the earth grow yomig again. 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 
I 

0, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 

being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves 

dead 
Are driven, hke ghosts from an enchanter 

fleeing. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. 
Pestilence-stricken midtitudes : O, thou, 5 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and 

low, 
Each like a corpse "within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 10 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill : 



THE INDIAN SERENADE 



463 



Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver ; hear, O, hear ! 

II 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's 
commotion, 15 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are 
shed, 

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and 
Ocean, 

Angels of rain and Hghtning: there are 

spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim 

verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou 

dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 

Vaulted with all thy congregated might 



Of vapours, from whose sohd atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : 
hear ! 



in 



o, 



Thou who didst waken from his summer 

dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 
Lulled by the coil of his crystallme streams, 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 35 
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! 

Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which 

wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, 
And tremble and despoil themselves: O, 
hear ! 



IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 46 
Than thou, O, uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50 
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have 
striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and 
bowed 55 

One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and 
proud. 

V 

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit 
fierce, 61 

My spirit 1 Be thou me, impetuous one ! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the imiverse 
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ! 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words arhong mankind ! 
Be through my lips to imawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! 0, wind. 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70 

THE INDIAN SERENADE 

I arise from dreams of thee 

In the first sweet sleep of night. 

When the winds are breathing low, 

And the stars are shining bright : 

I arise from dreams of thee, 5 

And a spirit in my feet 

Hath led me — who knows how ? 

To thy chamber window, Sweet ! 



464 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream — 10 

The Champak ^ odours fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 

The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart ; — ■ 

As I must on thine, 15 

O ! beloved as thou art ! 

Hft me from the grass ! 

1 die ! I faint ! I fail ! 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my hps and eyelids pale. 20 

My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast ; — ■ 
Oh ! press it to thine own again. 
Where it will break at last. 



THE CLOUD 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken S 

The sweet buds every one. 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 10 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 15 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers. 

Lightning my pilot sits ; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, — 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 20 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 25 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 



a tree of India, belonging to the magnolia 



family 



And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 
Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 

The sanguine sunrise, with his m^eteor eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread. 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 

When the morning star shines dead, 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 35 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit 
sea beneath, 

Its ardours of rest and of love, 40 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 45 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-hke floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her imseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 50 

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 56 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
high, 

Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 

swim, 6 1 

When the whirlwinds my banner 

unfurl. • 

From cape to cape, with a bridge -like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 65 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to my 
chair, 
Is the million-coloured bow ; 70 

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. 
While the moist earth was laughing 
below. 



TO A SKYLARK 



465 



I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursHng of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shores; 75 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain when, with never a stain, 

The pavihon of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their con- 
vex gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 80 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from 
the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever 
singest. 10 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are brightning. 

Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begim. 

The pale pvirple even i& 

Melts aromid thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven 
In the broad day-light 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill 
delight, 20 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere. 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 25 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud. 
As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out.her beams, and heaven is 
overflowed. 30 



What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of 
melody. 35 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded 
not : 40 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows 
her bower : 45 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass which screen it 
from the view : 50 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered. 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- 
winged thieves. 55 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkhng grass. 
Rain-awakened flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, th}^ music doth 
surpass. 60 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine ; 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so 
divine : 65 

Chorus Hymenical, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 
Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feci there is some hidden 
want. 70 



466 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain ? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance 
of pain? 75 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be — 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest — but ne'er knew love's sad 
satiety. 80 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream. 
Or how coiild thy notes flow in such a crystal 
stream? 85 

We look before and after 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught ; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 
saddest thought. 90 

' Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come 
near. 95 

Better than all measures 
Of deUghtful sound — 
Better than aU treasures 
That in books are found — 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the 
ground! 100 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then — as I am 
listening now. 105 

TO 



Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, 5 

Are heaped for the beloved's bed ; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 

ADONAIS 

I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 

O, weep for Adonais ! though our tears 

Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a 

head ! 
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure com- 
peers, s 
And teach them thine own sorrow, say : 

"With me 
Died Adonais ; till the Future dares 
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 
An echo and a light unto eternity." 

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he 

lay, 10 

When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft 

which flies 
In darkness? where waslorn Urania 
When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 
'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured 

breath, 15 

Rekindled all the fading melodies. 
With which, like flowers that mock the 

corse beneath. 
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of 

death. 

O, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! 

Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and 



weep 



Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 



Yet wherefore ? Quench A^athin their burn- 
ing bed 

Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep 

Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; 

For he is gone, where all things wise and 
fair 

Descend ; — oh, dream not that the amo- 
rous Deep 25 

Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at 
our despair. 

Most musical of mourners, weep again! 
Lament anew, Urania ! — He died, — 
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 
Blmd, old, and lonely, .when his country's 
pride, 31 



ADONAIS 



467 



The priest, the slave, and the Hberticide, 
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed 

rite 
Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified. 
Into the gulph of death ; but his clear 

Sprite 35 

Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the 

sons of light. 

Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
Not all to that bright station dared to 

climb ; 
And happier they their happiness who 

knew, 
Whose tapers' yet burn through that night 

of time 40 

In which suns perished; others more 

subKme, 
Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, 
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent 

prime ; 
And some yet live, treading the thorny road. 
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's 

serene abode. 45 

But now, thy youngest, dearest one has 

perished. 
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, 
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden 

cherished, 
And fed with true love tears, instead of 

dew; 
Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 50 
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the 

last, 
The bloom, whose petals, nipped before 

they blew, 
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; 
The broken hly hes — the storm is overpast. 

To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. 
He came ; and bought, with price of purest 
breath, 57 

A grave among the eternal. — Come away ! 
Haste, while the vault of blue ItaUan day 
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 60 
He lies, as if in dew^ sleep he lay ; 
Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! — 

Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 

The shadow of white Death, and at the 

door 66 



Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; 
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law 
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal 
curtain draw. 72 

O, weep for Adonais ! — The quick Dreams, 
The passion -winged Ministers of thought, 
Who were his flocks, whom near the hving 

streams 75 

Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he 

taught 
The love which was its music, wander 

not, — 
Wander no more, from kindling brain to 

brain. 
But droop there, whence they sprung ; and 

mourn their lot 
Round the cold heart, where, after their 

sweet pain, 80 

They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home 

again. 

And one with trembling hands clasps his 

cold head. 
And fans him with her moonUght wings, and 

cries : 
"Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not 

dead; 
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, 85 
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 
A tear some Dream has loosened from his 

brain." 
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise ! 
She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no 

stain 
She faded, hke a cloud which had out wept 

its rain. 90 

One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
Washed his light limbs as if embalming 

them ; 
Another clipped her profuse locks, and 

threw 
The wreath upon him, like an anadem. 
Which frozen tears instead of pearls be- 
gem ; 95 
Another in her wilful grief would break 
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
A greater loss with one which was more 
weak ; 
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen 
cheek. 



468 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



Another Splendour on his mouth alit, loo 
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw 

the breath 
Which gave it strength to pierce the 

guarded wit, 
And pass into. the panting heart beneath 
With Hghtning and with music : the damp 

death 
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips ; 105 
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night 

clips, 
It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed 

to its eclipse. 

And others came . . . Desires and Adora- 
tions, 
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies, 
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering 
Incarnations 1 1 1 

Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies ; 
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the 

gleam 
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 115 
Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp 
might seem 
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal 
stream. 

All he had loved, and moulded into thought, 
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet 

sound, 
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 120 
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair 

unbound, 
Wet with the tears which should adorn the 

ground. 
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day ; 
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned. 
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 125 
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in 

their dismay. 

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless moun- 
tains, 

And feeds her grief with his remembered 
lay, _ 

And wiU no more reply to winds or foun- 
tains. 

Or amorous birds perched on the yoimg 
green spray, 130 

Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; 

Since she can mimic not his lips, more 
dear 



Than those for whose disdain she pined 

away 
Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear 
Murmur, between their songs, is aU the wood- 
men hear. 135 

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she 

threw down 
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were. 
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is 

flown. 
For whom shoiild she have waked the sullen 

year ? 
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 140 
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
Thou, Adonais : wan they stand and sere 
Amid the faint companions of their youth. 
With dew aU turned to tears ; odour, to 

sighing ruth. 

Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale. 
Mourns not her mate with such melodious 

pain; 146 

Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's 

domain 
Her mighty youth with morning, doth 

complain. 
Soaring and screaming round her empty 

nest, 150 

As Albion wails for thee: the curse of 

Cain 
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent 

breast. 
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly 

guest! 

Ah, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone. 
But grief returns with the revolving year; 
The airs and streams renew their joyous 

tone; 156 

The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear ; 
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 

Seasons' bier ; 
The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 
And buUd their mossy homes in field and 

brere; 160 

And the green lizard, and the golden snake, 

Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance 

awake. 

Through wood and stream and field and hill 

and Ocean 
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has 

burst. 



ADONAIS 



469 



As it has ever done, with change and mo- 
tion, 165 

From the great morning of the world when 
first 

God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream im- 
mersed 

The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer 
light ; 

AU baser things pant with life's sacred 
thirst ; 

Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's 
delight 1 70 

The beauty and the joy of their renewed 
might. 

The leprous corpse touched by this spirit 

tender 
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; 
Like incarnations of the stars, when 

splendour 174 

Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death 
And mock the merry worm that wakes 

beneath ; 
Naught we know, dies. ShaU that alone 

which knows 
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
By sightless lightning ? — th' intense atom 

gloVv'S 

A moment, then is quenched in a most cold 
repose. - 180 

Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
Whence are we, and why are we? of what 

scene 
The actors or spectators ? Great and mean 
Meet massed in death, who lends what life 

must borrow. 186 

As long as skies are blue, and fields are 

green, 
Evening must usher night, night urge the 

morrow, 
Month follow month with woe, and year wake 

year to sorrow. 

He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
"Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless 

Mother, rise 191 

Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's 

core, 
A wound more fierce than his with tears 

and sighs." 
And all the Dreams that watched Urania's 

eyes, 194 

AE 



And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 
Had held in holy silence, cried : "Arise ! " 
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory 

stung, 
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour 

sprung. 

She rose like an autumnal Night, that 
springs 199 

Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier. 
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and 

fear 

So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania ; 204 

So saddened round her like an atmosphere 

Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way 

Even to the mournful place where Adonais 

lay. 

Out of her secret Paradise she sped. 
Through camps and cities rough with 

stone, and steel. 
And human hearts, which to her aery tread 
Yielding not, wounded the invisible 210 
Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell : 
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more 

sharp than they. 
Rent the soft Form they never could repel, 
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of 

May, 215 

Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving 

way. 

In the death chamber for a moment Death, 
Shamed by the presence of that living 

Might, 
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 220 
Flashed through those limbs, so late her 

dear delight. 
"Leave me not wild and drear and com- 
fortless. 
As silent lightning leaves the starless night ! 
Leave me not !" cried Urania : her distress 
Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, and 
met her vain caress. 225 

" Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ; 
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live ; 
And in my heartless breast and burning 

brain 
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else 

survive, 
With food of saddest memory kept alive, 



470 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 231 
Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
But I am chained to Time, and cannot 
thence depart ! 

"Oh gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths 

of men 236 

Too soon, and with weak hands though 

mighty heart 
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den? 
Defenceless as thou wert, oh where was 

then 
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the 

spear ? 240 

Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when 
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent 

sphere. 
The monsters of life's waste had fled from 

thee like deer. 

"The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; 
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the 

dead ; 245 

The vultures to the conqueror's banner 

true, 
Who feed where Desolation first has fed, 
And whose wings rain contagion ; — how 

they fled. 
When like Apollo, from his golden bow. 
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 250 
And smiled ! — The spoilers tempt no 

second blow ; 
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them 

lying low. 

"The sun comes forth, and many reptiles 

spawn ; 
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
Is gathered into death without a dawn, 255 
And the immortal stars awake again ; 
So is it in the world of living men : 
A godhke mind soars forth, in its delight 
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and 

when 
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared 

its light 260 

Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful 

night." 

Thus ceased she : and the mountain shep- 
herds came, 

Their garlands sere, their magic mantles 
rent ; 



The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
Over his living head like Heaven is bent, 
An early but enduring monument, 266 

Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song 
In sorrow ; from her wilds lerne sent 
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong. 
And love taught grief to fall like music from 
his tongue. 270 

]\Iidst others of less note, came one frail 

Form, 
A phantom among men, companionless 
As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I guess, 
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray 276 
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, 
And his own thoughts, along that rugged 

way, 
Pursued, like raging hoimds, their father and 

their prey. 

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift — 
A Love in desolation masked ; — a Power 
Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce 

uplift 282 

The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak 
Is it not broken? On the withering 

flower 286 

The killing sun smiles brightly ; on a 

cheek 
The life can burn in blood, even while the 

heart may break. 

His head was bound with pansies over- 

blo\\Ti, 
And faded violets, white, and pied, and 

blue ; . 290 

And a light spear topped with a cypress 

cone. 
Round, whose rude shaft dark i-vy tresses 

grew 
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew. 
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; of 

that crew 295 

He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the himter's 

dart. 

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
Smiled through their tears ; well knew that 
gentle band 



ADONAIS 



471 



Who in another's fate now wept his own; 
As, in the accents of an unknown land, 301 
He sung new sorrow ; sad Urania scanned 
The Stranger's mien, and murmured : 

"Who art thou?" 
He answered not, but with a sudden hand 
Made bare liis branded and ensanguined 

brow, 305 

Which was hke Cain's or Christ's — Oh ! 

that it should be so ! 

What softer voice is hushed over the dead ? 

Athwart what brow is that dark mantle 
thrown ? 

What form leans sadly o'er the white death- 
bed, 

In mockery of monumental stone, 310 

The heavy heart heaving without a moan ? 

If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, 

Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the de- 
parted one. 

Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs 
The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 

Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh! 316 
What deaf and viperous murderer could 

crown 
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ? 
The nameless worm would now itself disown : 
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 320 
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and 

wrong. 
But what was howling in one breast alone, 
Silent with expectation of the song. 
Whose master's hand is cold, whose sUver 

lyre mistrung. 

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! 
Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from 

me, 326 

Thou noteless blot on a remembered name ! 
But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
And ever at thy season be thou free 
■ To spill the venom when thy fangs o'er- 

fiow : 330 

Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to 

thee; 
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret 

brow. 
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt 

— as now. 

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 
Far from these carrion kites that scream 
below ; 335 



He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; 
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. 
Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit shall 

flow 
Back to the burning fountain whence it 

came, 339 

A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
Through time and change, unquenchably 

the same, 
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid 

hearth of shame. 

Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not 

sleep — 
He hath awakened from the dream of 

life — 
'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 346 
And in mad trance strike with our spirit's 

knife 
Invulnerable nothings. — We decay 
Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day, 
And cold hopes swarm like worms within 

our living clay. 351 

He has outsoared the shadow of our night ; 
Envy and calumny and hate and pain. 
And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
From the contagion of the world's slow 

stain 356 

He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in 

vain ; 
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to 

burn, 359 

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 

He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, 

not he ; 
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou yomig 

Dawn, 
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from 

thee 
The spirit thou lamentcst is not gone ; 
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and 

thou Air, 366 

Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst 

thrown 
O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it 

bare 
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its 

despair ! 



472 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 



He is made one with Nature: there is 

heard 37° 

His voice in all her music, from the moan 
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet 

bird; 
He is a presence to be felt and known 
In darkness and in light, from herb and 

stone, 
Spreading itself where'er that Power may 

move 375 

Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; 
Which wields the world with never wearied 

love. 
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 

He is a portion of the loveliness 

Which once he made more lovely : he doth 
bear 380 

His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress 

Sweeps through the dull dense world, com- 
pelling there 

All new successions to the forms they wear ; 

Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks 
its flight 384 

To its own likeness, as each mass may bear ; 

And bursting in its beauty and its might 
From trees and beasts and men into the 
Heaven's light. 

The splendours of the firmament of time 
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not ; 
Like stars to their appointed height they 

climb, 390 

And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
The brightness it may veil. When lofty 

thought 
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. 
And love and life contend in it, for what 
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live 

there 395 

And move like winds of light on dark and 

stormy air. 

The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 
Rose from their thrones, built beyond mor- 
tal thought, 
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 400 
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought 
And as he fell and as he lived and loved, 
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot. 
Arose ; and Lucan, by his death ap- 
proved : 
ObUvion, as they rose, shrank like a thing 
reproved. 405 



And many more, whose names on Earth 

are dark 
But whose transmitted efiiuence cannot die 
So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 409 
"Thou art become as one of us," they cry 
"It was for thee yon kingless sphere has 

long 
Swung blind in imascended majesty, 
Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. 
Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of 

our throng !" 

Who mourns for Adonais? oh come forth. 
Fond wretch ! and know thyself and him 

aright. 416 

Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous 

Earth; 
As from a centre, dart thy spirit's Ught 
Beyond all worlds, until its spacious 

might 
Satiate the void circtunference : then 

shrink 420 

Even to a point within our day and 

night ; 
And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee 

sink, 
When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee 

to the brink. 

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, 

O, not of him, but of our joy : 'tis 

naught 425 

That ages, empires, and religions there 
Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought ; 
For such as he can lend, — they borrow not 
Glory from those who made the world their 

prey; 
And he is gathered to the kings of thought 
Who waged contention with their time's 

decay, 43 i 

And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 

Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 
The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 
And where its wrecks like shattered moun- 
tains rise, 435 
And flowering weeds and fragrant copses 

dress 
The bones of Desolation's nakedness 
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access 
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, 
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is 
spread. 441 



FINAL CHORUS FROM HELLAS 



473 



And grey walls moulder round, on which 

dull Time 
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
This refuge for his memory, doth stand 446 
Like flame transformed to marble ; and 

beneath, 
A field is spread, on which a newer band 
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp 
of death. 
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extin- 
guished breath. 450 

Here pause : these graves are all too young 

as yet 
To have outgrown the sorrow which con- 
signed 
Its charge to each ; and if the seal is set, 
Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, 
Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou 
find 455 

Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, 
Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter 

wind 
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
What Adonais is, why fear we to become ? 

The One remains, the many change and 

pass ; 460 

Heaven's light forever shines. Earth's 

shadows fly ; 
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, 
Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — 

Die, 
If thou wouldst be with that which thou 

dost seek ! 465 

Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure 

sky. 
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are 

weak 
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to 

speak. 

Why Unger, why turn back, why shrink, 

ray Heart ? 
Thy hopes are gone before : from all things 

here . 470 

They have departed ; thou shouldst now 

depart ! 
A light is past from the revolving year. 
And man, and woman ; and what still is dear 
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee 

wither. 



The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whis- 
pers near; 475 

'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither. 
No more let Life divide what Death can join 
together. 

That Light whose smile kindles the Uni- 
verse, 
That Beauty in which all things work and 

move. 
That Benediction which the eclipsmg 

Curse 480 

Of birth can quench not, that sustaming 

Love 
Which, through the web of being blindly 

wove 
By man and beast and earth and air and 

sea. 
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on 

me,_ 48s 

Consiuning the last clouds of cold mortality. 

The breath whose might I have invoked in 

song 
Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven 
Far from the shore, far from the trembling 

throng 489 

AVhose sails were never to the tempest 

given ; 
The massy earth and sphered skies are 

riven ! 
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar : 
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of 

Heaven, 
The soul of Adonais, like a star, 494 

Beacons from the abode where the Eternal 

are. 



FINAL CHORUS FROM HELLAS 

The world's great age begins anew, 

The golden years return. 
The earth doth like a snake renew 

Her winter weeds outworn : 
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam, 
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 6 

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 

From waves serener far ; 
A new Peneus rolls his fountains 

Agamst the morning-star. 10 

WTiere fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep 
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 



474 



JOHN KEATS 



A loftier Argo cleaves the main, 

Fraught with a later prize ; 
Another Orpheus sings again, 15 

And loves, and weeps, and dies. 
A new Ulysses leaves once more 
Calypso for his native shore. 

O, write no more the tale of Troy, 

If earth Death's scroU must be ! 20 

Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 

Which dawns upon the free : 
Although a subtler Sphinx renew 
Riddles of death Thebes never knew. 

Another Athens shall arise, 25 

And to remoter time 
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, 

The splendour of its prime ; 
And leave, if naught so bright may live, 
All earth can take or Heaven can give. 30 

Saturn and Love their long repose 
Shall burst, more bright and good 

Than all who fell, than One who rose, 
Than many unsubdued : 

Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, 35 

But votive tears and symbol flowers. 

O cease ! must hate and death return ? 

Cease ! must men kill and die ? 
Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn 

Of bitter prophecy. 40 

The world is weary of the past, 
O might it die or rest at last ! 

TO NIGHT 

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, 

Spirit of Night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave. 
Where all the long and lone daylight 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, 5 

Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight ! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, 

Star in-wrought ! 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day ; 10 
Kiss her until she be wearied out ; 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — • 

Come, long sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 15 

I sighed for thee ; 



When light rode high, and the dew was gone. 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 20 

I sighed for thee. 



Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
Wouldst thou me ? 

Thy sweet chfld Sleep, the fihny-eyed, 

Murmured like a noon-tide bee. 

Shall I nestle near thy side ? 

Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied, 
No, not thee ! 



Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep wiU come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 
Come soon, soon ! 



TO 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it. 
One feeling too falsely disdained 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother. 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men caU love, 

But wilt thou accept not 
The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not, — 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow ? 



25 



30 



35 



15 



JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) 
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

My heart aches, and a.drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had 
drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had 
sunk : 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 



475 



But being too happy in thine happiness, — 

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the comitry green. 
Dance, and Provengal song, and sunburnt 
mirth ! 

for a beaker full of the warm South, 15 
FuU of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 

And purple-stained mouth ; 

That I might drink, and leave the world 

unseen. 

And with thee fade away into the forest 

dim : 20 

Fade far away, dissolve, and qiiite forget, 
What thou among the leaves hast never 
known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
Here, where men sit and hear each other 
groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs. 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, 
and dies ; 26 

Where but to think is to be fuU of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs. 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous 
eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to- 
morrow. 30 

Away ! away ! for I wiU fly to thee. 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the duU brain perplexes and re- 
tards : 
Already with thee! tender is the night. 35 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes 
blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding 
mossy ways. 40 

1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet, 
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 

boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 



The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglan- 
tine ; 46 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child. 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer 
eves. 50 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul 
abroad 

In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in 
vain — 
To thy high reqmem become a sod. 60 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick 
for home, 66 

She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the 
foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a beU 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 75 
Past the near meadows, over the stiU stream. 
Up the hiU-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next vaUey-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 79 
Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 



ODE ON A GRECT\N URN 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time. 

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy 
shape s 



476 



JOHN KEATS 



Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
What men or gods are these ? What maidens 
loth? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to 
escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild 
ecstasy ? lo 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not 
leave 15 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not 
grieve ; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy 
bliss. 
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 20 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu : 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

Forever piping songs forever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 
Forever warm and still to be en joy 'd, 26 
Forever panting, and forever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above. 
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and 
cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching 
tongue. 30 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
What little town by river or sea shore, 35 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 
Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of 
thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 45 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 



Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou 

say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is 

all, 

Ye know on earth, and aU ye need to 

know. 50 

TO AUTUMN 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the thatch- 
eaves run ; 4 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees. 
And fiU all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel 
shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, 
And stiU more, later flowers for the bees, 
UntU they think warm days wiU never cease, 
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their 
clammy cells. 11 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft -lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 16 
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy 
hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined 
flowers : 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 20 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by 
hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where 
are they? 
Think not of them, thou hast thy music 
too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then m a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly 
bourn ; 30 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble 

soft 
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; 
And gathering swallows twitter in the 
skies. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 



477 



ODE 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Double-lived in regions new? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 5 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wond'rous, 
And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 10 

Seated on Elysian lawns 
Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns; 
Underneath large bluebells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 15 

Perfume which on earth is not ; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 20 

Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 25 

Teach us, here, the way to find you 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 30 

Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
W^hat doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 35 

Wisdom, though tied far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new ! 40 



LINES ON THE LIER]SL\ID TAVERN 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the JNIermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 5 

Than mine host's Canary wine? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 



Sweeter than those dainty pies 

Of venison ? O generous food ! 

Drest as though bold Robin Hood 10 

Would, with his maid Marian, 

Sup and bowse from horn and can, 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board llew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 15 

An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new old-sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 20 

And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 25 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

Alone and palely loitering ? 
The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 

And no birds sing, 4 

what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
So haggard and so woe-begone? 

The squirrel's granary is full. 

And the harvest's done. 8 

1 see a lily on thy brow 

With anguish moist and fever dew, 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 

Fast withereth too. 12 

"I met a lady in the meads, 
Full beautiful — a faery's child ; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 

And her eyes were wild. 16 

"I made a garland for her head. 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 

She look'd at me as she did love, 

And made sweet moan. 20 

"I set her on my pacing steed. 
And nothing else saw all day long, 

For sideways would she lean, and sing 
A faery's song. 24 



478 



JOHN KEATS 



" She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild, and manna-dew, 

And sure in language strange she said — 
'I love thee true.' 28 

"She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore. 
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes. 

With kisses four. 

32 
"And there she lulled me asleep, 

And there I dream'd — ah ! woe betide ! — • 
The latest dream I ever dream'd 

On the cold hill's side. 36 

"I saw pale kings and princes too. 

Pale -warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

They cried — 'La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall ! ' 40 

"I saw their starved lips in the gloom, 
With horrid warning gaped wide ; 

And I awoke, and found me here 

On the cold hill's side. 44 

"And this is why I sojourn here. 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake. 

And no birds sing." 48 

SONNETS 

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE 
CRICKET 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When aU the birds are faint with the hot 

sun, 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown 

mead ; 
That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 6 
With his delights ; for when tired out with 
fun 
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 
The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 10 
Has wrought a silence, from the stove 
there shriUs 
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever. 
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy 
hills. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP- 
MAN'S HOMER 

• 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 

Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5 

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his 
demesne ; 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 

bold:^ 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken; 10 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

TO SLEEP 

O soft embalmer of the still midnight ! 
■ Shuttmg with careful fingers and benign 
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the 
light, ^ 
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine ; 
O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, close, 5 
In midst of this thine hymn, my willmg eyes, 
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 
Around my bed its lulling charities ; 
Then save me, or the passed day will shine 
Upon my pillow, breedmg many woes ; 10 
Save me from curious conscience, that still 
lords 
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a 
mole; 
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards. 
And seal the hushed casket of my sovil. 



ON THE SEA 

It keeps eternal whisperings around 

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell 
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the 
speU 
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy 

sound. 
Often 'tis in such gentle temper found 5 

That scarcely will the very smallest shell 
Be mov'd for days from whence it sometime 
fell. 
When last the winds of heaven were unbomid. 



ENDYMION 



479 



Oh, ye, who have your eye-balls vex'd and 
tir'd. 
Feast them upon the wideness of the sea ; lo 
O, ye, whose ears are dinn'd with uproar 

rude, 
Or fed too much with cloying melody, — 
Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and 
brood 
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quir'd ! 

WHEN I HAVE FEARS 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming 
brain. 
Before high piled books, in charact'ry. 

Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain ; 
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 5 

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And think that I may never live to trace 

Their shadows, with the magic hand of 
chance ; 
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! 

That I shaU never look upon thee more, 10 
Never have relish in the faery power 

Of unreflecting love ! — then on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. 

BRIGHT STAR! 

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou 
art — 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, 
And watching, mth eternal lids apart, 

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
The moving waters at their priest like task 5 

Of pure ablution round earth'shuman shores. 
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the 
moors — 
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, 
To feel forever its soft fall and swell, 11 

Awake forever in a sweet unrest, 
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. 
And so hve ever — or else swoon to death. 

ENDYMION 

From BOOK I 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever : 
Its loveliness increases ; it will never 



Pass into nothingness ; but stiU wiU keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 

breathing. 5 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth. 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 
Of aU the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways 
Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 11 
Some shape of beauty moves away the paU 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the 

moon. 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 1 5 
With the green world they live in ; and clear 

rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
'Gainst the hot season ; the mid forest brake, 
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose 

blooms : 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 20 
We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 25 
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories mfinite, 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 30 
Unto owe souls, and boimd to us so fast. 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er- 

cast, . 
They alway must be with us, or we die. 

Hi ***** * 

"This river does not see the naked sky, 540 
TiU it begins to progress silverly 
Around the western border of the wood. 
Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood 
Seems at the distance like a crescent moon : 
And in that nook, the very pride of June, 545 
Had I been us'd to pass my weary eyes ; 
The rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
So dear a picture of his sovereign power. 
And I could witness his most kingly hour. 
When he doth tighten up the golden reins, 550 
And paces leisurely down amber plains 
His snorting four. Now when his chariot last 
Its beams against the zodiac -Hon ^ cast, 

^ the zodiacal sign Leo, in which the sun 
travels from July 21 to August 21 



48o 



JOHN KEATS 



There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 
Of sacred ditamy/ and poppies red : 555 

At which I wondered greatly, knowing well 
That but one night had wrought this flowery 

spell; 
And, sitting down close by, began to muse 
What it might mean. 



" And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw emerge 
The loveliest moon that ever silver'd o'er 
A shell for Neptune's goblet : she did soar 
So passionately bright, my dazzled soul 594 
Commingling with her argent spheres did roll 
Through clear and cloudy, even when she 

went 
At last into a dark and vapoury tent — 
Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 
Of planets aU were in the blue again. 
To commune with those orbs, once more I 
rais'd 600 

My sight right upward: but it was quite 

dazed 
By a bright something, sailing down apace, 
Making me quickly veil my eyes and face : 
Again I Ibok'd, and, O ye deities. 
Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 605 
Whence that completed form of all complete- 
ness? 
Whence came that high perfection of all sweet- 
ness? 
Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O 

where 
Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair? 609 
Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western 

sun; 
Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me shun 
Such foUying before thee — yet she had, 
Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad ; 
And they were simply gordian'd up and 

braided, 
Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded, 615 
Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed 

brow ; 
The which were blended in, I know not how, 
With such a paradise of lips and eyes. 
Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest 

sighs, 
That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings 
And plays about its fancy, till the stings 621 
Of human neighbourhood envenom all. 
Unto what awful power shall I call? 

^ a flower of Greece, supposed to possess magi- 
cal properties 



To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hovering 

feet, 
More bluely vein'd, more soft, more .whitely 

sweet 625 

Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose 
From out her cradle shell. The wind out- 
blows 
Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 
'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million 
Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed 630 
Over the darkest, lushest bluebell bed, 
Handfuls of daisies." — "Endymion, how 

strange ! 
Dream within dream!" — "She took an airy 

range. 
And then, towards me, like a very maid, 
Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid, 
And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 'twas too 

much ; 636 

Methought I fainted at the charmed touch. 
Yet held my recollection, even as one 
Who dives three fathoms where the waters run 
Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 640 

I felt upmounted in that region 
Where falling stars dart their artillery forth, 
And eagles struggle with the buffeting north 
That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 
Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone ; 645 
But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky. 
Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high, 
And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd ; 
Such as ay muster where grey time has scoop'd 
Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side : 
There hollow soimds arous'd me, and I sigh'd 
To faint once more by looking on my bliss — 
I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 653 

The wooing arms which held me, and did give 
My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to live, 
To take in draughts of life from the gold fount 
Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, and 

count 
The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd 
A second self, that each might be redeem'd 
And plunder'd of its load of blessedness. 660 
Ah, desperate mortal! I e'en dar'd to press 
Her very cheek against my crowned lip, 
And, at that moment, felt my body dip 
Into a warmer air : a moment more. 
Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store 
Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 666 
A scent of violets, and blossotning limes, 
Loiter'd around us ; then of honey cells, 
Made delicate from all white-flower bells ; 
And once, above the edges of our nest, 670 
An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd. 



HYPERION 



481 



HYPERION 

A FRAGMENT 
From Book I 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star. 
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, 
Still as the silence round about his lair; 5 
Forest on forest hung about his head 
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there. 
Not so much life as on a summer's day 
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd 

grass, 
But where the dead leaf feU, there did it rest. 
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened 

more 11 

By reason of his fallen divinity 
Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 
Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks 

went, 15 

No further than to where his feet had stray'd. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden 

ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were 

closed ; 
WhUe his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the 

Earth, 20 

His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him from his 

place ; 
But there came one, who with a kindred hand 
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it 

not. 26 

She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 
Flad stood a pigmy's height : she would have 

ta'en 
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; 
Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. 30 

Her face was large as that of Memphian 

sphinx, 
Pedestal'd haply in a palace court, 
When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 
But oh ! how unlike marble was that face : 
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 35 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. 
There was a listening fear in her regard. 
As if calamity had but begun ; 



As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 40 
Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 
Where beats the human heart, as if just there. 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 45 

She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she 

spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ tone : 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble 

tongue 
Would come in these like accents ; how frail 
To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 51 
"Saturn, look up! — though wherefore, poor 

old King? 
I have no comfort for thee, no, not one : 
I cannot say, 'O wherefore sleepest thou?' 
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ; 56 
And ocean too, with aU its solemn noise, 
Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
Thy thunder, conscious of the new command. 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 61 
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands 
Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 66 

That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn, sleep on : — O thoughtless, why did I 
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes? 70 
Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep." 

As when, upon a tranced summer night, 
Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods. 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest 

stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 76 

Which comes upon the silence, and dies off. 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave ; 
So came these words and went ; the while in 

tears 
She touch'd her fair large forehead to the 

ground, 80 

Just where her falling hair might be outspread 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night. 
And still these two were postured motionless. 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 86 



482 



JOHN KEATS 



The frozen God still couchant on the earth, 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : 
Until at length old Saturn lifted up 
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 90 
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, 
And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then 

spake. 
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard 
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady : 
"O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 95 

Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 
Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice 
Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 100 
Naked and bare of its great diadem. 
Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had 

power 
To make me desolate? whence came the 

strength ? 
How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth, 
While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous 



grasp ! 



I OS 



But it is so ; and I am smother'd up, 
And buried from ail godlike exercise 
Of influence benign on planets pale. 
Of admonitions to the winds and seas. 
Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, no 
And aU those acts which Deity supreme 
Doth ease its heart of love in. — 1 am gone 
Away from my own bosom : I have left 
My strong identity, my real self, 
Somewhere between the throne, and where I 
sit, 115 

Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, 

search ! 
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round 
Upon all space : space starr'd, and lorn of light ; 
Space region 'd with life-air ; and barren void ; 
Spaces of lire, and aU the yawn of hell. — 120 
Search, Thea, search ! and teU me, if thou seest 
A certain shape or shadow, making way 
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 
A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must 
Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. 
Yes, there must be a golden victory ; 126 

There must be Gods thrown down, and trum- 
pets blown 
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 
Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, 
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 130 
Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
Of the sky-children ; I will give command : 
Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?" 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the 

frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while 

he told 5 

His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a 

death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, whfle his 

prayer he saith. 9 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy 

man; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his 

knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, 

wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to 

freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 15 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails, 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and 

mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little door. 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden 

tongue 20 

Flatter 'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his deathbell rung ; 
The joys of aU his life were said and sung : 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: 
Another way he went, and soon among 25 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to 

grieve. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude 

soft; 
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice 
rests, 35 

With hair blown back, and wmgs put cross- 
wise on their breasts. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



483 



At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with 

triumphs gay 4° 

Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry 

day, 
On love, and ^vinged St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many times 

declare. 45 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night. 
If ceremonies due- they did aright ; 50 

As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they 
desire. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 56 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saAV many a sweeping 

train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high dis- 
dain. 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere : 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of 
the year. 

She danc'd along with vague, regardless 

eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and 

short : 65 

The hallowed hour was near at hand : she 

sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd^ with fairy fancy ; all amort,- 70 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the 
moors, 



Had come young Porphyro, with heart on 
fire 75 

For Madehne. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and 

implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship aU unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth 
such things have been. 81 

He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel •. 
For him, those chambers held barbarian 

hordes, 85 

Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in 

soul. 90 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's 

flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 94 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from 
this place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole blood- 
thirsty race ! 

" Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish 

Hfldebrand; 100 

He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and 

land : 
Then there's that old Lord ^Maurice, not a 

whit 
More tame for his grey hairs — Alas me ! 

flit! 
Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip ^ 

dear, 105 

We're safe enough; here in this armchair 

sit. 
And tell me how" — "Good Samts ! not 

here, not here; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be 

thy bier." 



blinded 



- dead 



^ godmother 



484 



JOHN KEATS 



He follow'd through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 
And as she mutter'd "Well-a — well-a- 
day!" , . _ _ m 

He found him in a little moonlight room, 
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and sUent as a tomb. 
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 115 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are Aveaving 
piously." 

"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men wUl murder upon holy days : 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 1 20 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — • St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
This very night : good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to 
grieve." 126 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book, 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 131 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 

told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could 

brook ^ 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments 

cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 135 

Sudden a thought came like a fuU-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame - start : 
"A cruel man and impious thou art : 140 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and 

dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! — I 

deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou 

didst seem." 144 

"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last 
prayer, 

^ hold back ^ old woman 



If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I wUl, even in a moment's space, 151 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd 
than wolves and bears." 

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard 

thing, — _ 155 

Whose passing-bell^ may ere the midnight 

toU; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 

evening. 
Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining,^ doth 

she bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 165 

That he might see her beauty unespied. 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
WhUe legion ed fairies pac'd the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 170 
Since Merlin paid his Demon aU the monstrous 
debt.3 

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame : 
" AU cates '' and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night : by the tam- 
bour frame 
Her own lute thou wUt see : no time to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 177 
Wait here, my child, with patience ; kneel 

in prayer 
The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady 
wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the 
dead." iSo 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 

^ bell rung when one is dying ^ lamenting 
^ Merlin the Magician, of Arthurian romance, was 
deceived and bespelled by Vivien, his mistress, 
cf. Tennyson's Merlin and Vivien. ^ delicacies 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



485 



To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dini espial. Safe at last, 185 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, and 

chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain .^ 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her 
brain. 

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 190 
Old Angela was feeling for the. stair, 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 196 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 
fray'd and fled. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 199 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
She closed the door, she panted aU akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions, wide : 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 205 
As though a tongueless nightingale should 
swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in 
her deU. 

A casement high and triple-arched there was, 
All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 
grass, 210 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked 

wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand herald- 
ries, 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush 'd with blood of 
queens and kings. 216 

Fvill on this casement shone the wintry 

moon. 
And threw warm gules- on Madeline's fair 

breast. 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and 

boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 

' greatly '^ red color 



And on her silver cross soft amethyst, ■ 221 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew 

faint : 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 

taint. 225 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 233 

But dares not look behind, or aU the charm is 
fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she 
lay, 236 

Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 

Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 

Flown, like a thought, imtil the morrow- 
day; 

Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 

Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims 
pray ; ^ 241 

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 
again. 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Prophyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanc'd 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he 

bless. 
And breath'd himself : then from the closet 

crept, 
Noiseless as fear ^ in a wide wilderness, 250 
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — 

how fast she slept. 

Then by the bedside, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 254 
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet !, 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 

' A mass-book would not be opened by devout 
pagans. - i.e., a person in fear 



486 



JOHN KEATS 



The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 

Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 

The hail door shuts again, and all the noise is 

gone. 261 

And stiU she slept an -azure-lidded sleep. 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
WhUe he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quiace, and plum, and 
gourd; 265 

With jeUies soother ^ than the creamy curd. 
And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one. 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 274 

Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth 
ache." 279 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her piUow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight 

charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 286 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tender- 
est be, 290 

He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans 

merci," ^ 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft 

moan: 
He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- 
denly 295 
Her blue affraycd eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculp- 
tured stone. 

^ smoother ^ Cf. Keats' poem with the same 
title. 



Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that night 

expeU'd 300 

The blisses of her dream so pure and deep, 
At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
And moan forth witless words with many a 

sigh; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 

eye, 305 

Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dream- 

ingly. 

"Ah, Porphyro !" said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ■. 
How chang'd thou art ! how pallid, chill, and 

drear I 311 

Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings 

dear ! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where 

to go." 

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 
Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind 

blows 
Like Love's alarum, pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon 

hath set. 

'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown 
sleet : 325 

"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 

pine. — 

Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 331 

Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 

A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned 

wing." 

" My IVIadeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely 

bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 335 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



487 



Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and 

vermeil dyed? 
Ah, silver shruae, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, — sav'd by miracle. 339 
Though I have found, I wUl not rob thy nest 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st 

well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from fairy land, 
Of haggard seemmg, but a boon indeed : 344 
Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
The bloated wassaUers will never heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'dallin Rhenish and the sleepy mead ; 
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 350 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for 
thee." 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 

spears — 
Dowa:i the wide stairs a darlding way they 

foimd. — 355 

In all the house was heard no human sovrnd. 
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by 

each door ; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and 

hound, 358 

Flutter'd m the besieging wind's uproar; 

And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide 

hall; 
Like phantoms, to the iron porch they gKde ; 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 

his hide, 365 

But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one. the bolts fifll easy slide : — 
The chains lie sUent on the footworn 

stones ; — 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 

groans. 

And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 370 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe. 
And aU his warrior-guests, with shade and 

form 
Of witch, and demon, and large cofhn-worm, 
Were long bc-nightmar'd. Angela the old 



Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face 

deform; 376 

The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 

For aye unsought for slept among his ashes 

cold. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

(1775-1864) 

^SOP AND RHODOPE 
SECOND CONVERSATION 

Msop. And so, our fellow-slaves are given 
to contention on the score of dignity ? 

Rhodope. I do not believe they are much 
addicted to contention: for, whenever the 
good Xanthus hears a signal of such misbe- 
haviour, he either brings a scourge into the 
midst of them or sends our lady to scold them 
smartly for it. 

Msop. Admirable evidence against their 
propensity ! 

Rhodope. I will not have you find them out 
so, nor laugh at them. 

Msop. Seeing that the good Xanthus and 
our lady are equally fond of thee, and always 
visit thee both together, the girls, however 
envious, cannot well or safel.v be arrogant, but 
must of necessity yield the first place to thee. 

Rhodope. They indeed are observant of the 
kindness thus bestowed upon me : yet they 
afflict me by taunting me continually with 
what I am unable to deny. 

jEsop. If it is true, it ought little to trouble 
thee; if untrue, less. I know, for I have 
looked into nothing else of late, no evil can 
thy heart have admitted : a sigh of thine be- 
fore the gods would remove the heaviest that 
could faU on it. Pray teU me what it may be. 
Come, be courageous ; be cheerful. I can 
easily pardon a smile if thou impleadest me of 
curiosity. 

Rhodope. They remark to me that enemies 
or robbers took them forcibly from their par- 
ents . . . and that . . . and that . . . 

jEsop. Likely enough: what then? Why 
desist from speaking? why cover th}'' face 
with thy hair and hands? Rhodope I 
Rhodope ! dost thou weep moreover ? 

Rhodope. It is so sure ! 

jEsop. W^as the fault thine? 

RhodopL O that it were ! ... if there was 
any. 



488 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



Msop. While it pains thee to tell it, keep 
thy silence; but when utterance is a solace, 
then impart it. 

Rhodope. They remind me (oh ! who could 
have had the cruelty to relate it?) that my 
father, my own dear father . . . 

Msop. Say not the rest : I know it : his 
day was come. 

Rhodope. . . . sold me, sold me. You 
start : you did not at the lightning last night, 
nor at the rolling sounds above. And do you, 
generous ^sop ! do you also call a misfortune 
a disgrace? 

jEsop. If it is, I am among the most dis- 
graceful of men. Didst thou dearly love thy 
father ? 

Rhodope. All loved him. He was very 
fond of me. 

Msop. And yet sold thee ! sold thee to a 
stranger ! 

Rhodope. He was the kindest of all kind 
fathers, nevertheless. Nine simimers ago, 
you may have heard perhaps, there was a 
grievous famine in our land of Thrace. 

Msop. I remember it perfectly. 

Rhodope. O poor y^^sop ! and were you too 
famishing in your native Phrygia ? 

Msop. The calamity extended beyond the 
narrow sea that separates our countries. My 
appetite was sharpened; but the appetite 
and the wits are equally set on the same 
grindstone. 

Rhodope. I was then scarcely five years old : 
my mother died the year before : my father 
sighed at every funeral, but he sighed more 
deeply at every bridal, song. He loved me 
because he loved her who bore me : and yet 
I made him sorrowful whether I cried or 
smiled. If ever I vexed him, it was because 
I would not play when he told me, but made 
him, by my weeping, weep again. 

Msop. And yet he could endure to lose 
thee ! he, thy father ! Could any other ? 
could any who lives on the fruits of the earth, 
endure it? O age, that art incumbent over 
me ! blessed be thou ; thrice blessed ! Not 
that thou stillest the tumults of the heart, 
and promisest eternal calm, but that, pre- 
vented by thy beneficence, I never shall 
experience this only intolerable wretchedness. 

Rhodope. Alas ! alas ! 

Msop. Thou art now happy, and shouldst 
not utter that useless exclamation. ' 

Rhodope. You said something angrily and 
vehemently when you stepped aside. Is it 



not enough that the handmaidens doubt the 
kindness of my father ? Must so virtuous and 
so wise a man as yEsop blame him also ? 

Msop. Perhaps he is Httle to be blamed; 
certainly he is much to be pitied. 

Rhodope. Kind heart ! on which mine 
must never rest ! 

Msop. Rest on it for comfort and for counsel 
when they fail thee : rest on it, as the deities 
on the breast of mortals, to console and purify 
it. 

Rhodope. Could I remove any sorrow from 
it, I should be contented. 

Msop. Then be so ; and proceed in thy 
narrative. 

Rhodope. Bear with me a little yet. My 
thoughts have overpowered my words, and 
now themselves are overpowered and scattered. 

Forty-seven days ago (this is only the forty- 
eighth since I beheld you first) I was a child ; 
I was ignorant, I was careless. 

Msop. If these qualities are signs of child- 
hood, the universe is a nursery. 

Rhodope. Affliction, which makes many 
wiser, had no such effect on me. But rever- 
ence and love (why should I hesitate at the 
one avowal more than at the other?) came 
over me, to ripen my understanding. 

Msop. O Rhodope ! we must loiter no 
longer upon this discourse. 

Rhodope. Why not ? 

Msop. Pleasant is yonder beanfield, seen 
over the high papyrus when it waves and 
bends : deep laden with the sweet heaviness of 
its odour is the listless air that palpitates diz- 
zily above it : but Death is lurking for the 
slumberer beneath its blossoms. 

Rhodope. You must not love then ! . . . 
but may not I ? 

Msop. We will . . . but . . . 

Rhodope. We ! O sound that is to vibrate 
on my breast forever ! O hour ! happier than 
all other hours since time began ! O gracious 
Gods ! who brought me into bondage ! 

Msop. Be calm, be composed, be circum- 
spect. We must hide our treasure that we 
may not lose it. 

Rliodope. I do not think that you can love 
me ; and I fear and tremble to hope so. Ah, 
yes ; you have said you did. But again you 
only look at me, and sigh as if you repented. 

Msop. Unworthy as I may be of thy fond 
regard, I am not unworthy of thy fullest con- 
fidence: why distrust mc? 

Rhodope. Never will I . . . never, never. 



.ESOP AND RHODOPE 



489 



To know that I possess youx love, surpasses all 
other knowledge, dear as is all that I receive 
from you. I should be tired of my own voice 
if I heard it on aught beside : and, even yours 
is less melodious in any other sound than 
RJiodope. 

Msop. Do such httle girls learn to flatter? 

Rhodope. Teach me how to speak, since 
you could not teach me how to be silent. 

Msop. Speak no longer of me, but of thy- 
self ; and only of things that never pain thee. 

Rhodope. Nothing can pain me now. 

Msop. Relate thy story then, from infancy. 

Rhodope. I must hold your hand: I am 
afraid of losing you again. 

Msop. Now begin. Why silent so long? 

Rhodope. I have dropped all memory of 
what is told by me and what is untold. 

Msop. Recollect a little. I can be patient 
with this hand in mine. 

Rhodope. I am not certain that yoixrs is any 
help to recollection. 

Msop. Shall I remove it ? 

Rhodope. O ! now I think I can recall the 
whole story. What did you say ? did you ask 
any question? 

Msop. None, excepting what thou hast 
answered. 

RJiodope. Never shall I forget the morning 
when my father, sitting in the coolest part of 
the house, exchanged his last measure of grain 
for a chlamys of scarlet cloth fringed with 
silver. He watched the merchant out of the 
door, and then looked wistfully into the corn- 
chest. I, who thought there was something 
worth seeing, looked in also, and, finding it 
empty, expressed my disappointment, not 
thinking however about the com. A faint and 
transient smile came over his countenance at 
the sight of mine. He unfolded the chlamys, 
stretched it out with both hands before me, 
and then cast it over my shoulders. I looked 
down on the glittering fringe and screamed 
with joy. He then went out ; and I know not 
what flowers he gathered, but he gathered 
many ; and some he placed in my bosom, and 
some in my hair. But I told him with cap- 
tious pride, first that I could arrange them 
better, and again that I would have only the 
white. However, when he had selected all 
the white, and I had placed a few of them 
according to my fancy, I told him (rising 
in my slipper) he might crown me with the 
remainder. The splendour of my apparel 
gave me a sensation of authority. Soon as 



the flowers had taken their station on my 
head, I expressed a dignified satisfaction at 
the taste displayed by my father, just as if I 
could have seen how they appeared ! But he 
knew that there was at least as much pleasure 
as pride in it, and perhaps we divided the 
latter (alas ! not both) pretty equally. He 
now took me into the market-place, where 
a concourse of people was waiting for the pur- 
chase of slaves. Merchants came and looked 
at me ; some commending, others disparaging ; 
but all agreeing that I was slender and delicate, 
that I could not live long, and that I should 
give much trouble. Many would have bought 
the chlamys, but there was something less 
salable in the child and flowers. 

Msop. Had thy features been coarse and 
thy voice rustic, they would all have patted 
thy cheeks and found no fault in thee. 

Rhodope. As it was, every one had bought 
exactly such another in time past, and been a 
loser by it. At these speeches I perceived the 
flowers tremble slightly on my bosom, from 
my father's agitation. Although he scoffed at 
them, knowing my healthiness, he was troubled 
internally, and said many short prayers, not 
very unlike imprecations, turning his head 
aside. Proud was I, prouder than ever, 
when at last several talents were offered for 
me, and by the very man who in the beginning 
had midervalued me the most, and proph- 
esied the worst of me. My father scowled 
at him, and refused the money. I thought 
he was playing a game, and began to wonder 
what it could be, since I never had seen it 
played before. Then I fancied it might be 
some celebration because plenty had returned 
to the city, insomuch that my father had 
bartered the last of the corn he hoarded. I 
grew more and more delighted at the sport. 
But soon there advanced an elderly man, 
who said gravely, "Thou hast stolen this 
child: her vesture alone is worth above a 
hundred drachmas. Carr>^ her home again 
to her parents, and do it directly, or Nemesis ^ 
and the Eumenides^ will overtake thee." 
Knowing the estimation in which my father 
had always been holdcn by his fellow-citizens, 
I laughed again, and pinched his ear. He, 
although naturally choleric, burst forth into 
no resentment at these reproaches, but said 
calmly, "I think I know thee by name, O 

^ the goddess who avenges wrongs - the 
Furies, who also are regarded as avengers 



490 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



guest ! Surely thou art Xanthus the Samian. 
Deliver this child from famine." 

Again I laughed aloud and heartily; and, 
thinking it was now my part of the game, I 
held out both my arms and protruded my 
whole body towards the stranger. He would 
not receive me from my father's neck, but 
he asked me with benignity and solicitude 
if I was hungry : at which I laughed again, 
and more than ever : for it v/as early in the 
morning, soon after the first meal, and my 
father had nourished me most carefully and 
plentifully in all the days of the famine. But 
Xanthus, waiting for no answer, took out of 
a sack, which one of his slaves carried at his 
side, a cake of wheaten bread and a piece of 
honey-comb, and gave them to me. I held the 
honey-comb to my father's mouth, thinking it 
the most of a dainty. He dashed it to the 
ground; but, seizing the bread, he began to 
devour it ferociously. This also I thought 
was in play ; and I clapped my hands at his 
distortions. But Xanthus looked on him 
like one afraid, and smote the cake from him, 
crying aloud, "Name the price." My father 
now placed me in his arms, naming a price 
much below what the other had offered, say- 
ing, "The gods are ever with thee, O Xanthus ; 
therefore to thee do I consign my child." 
But while Xanthus was counting out the 
silver, my father seized the cake again, which 
the slave had taken up and was about to 
replace in the waUet. His hunger was 
exasperated by the taste and the delay. 
Suddenly there arose much tumult. Turning 
round in the old woman's bosom who had 
received me from Xanthus, I saw my beloved 
father struggling on the ground, livid and 
speechless. The more violent my cries, the 
more rapidly they hurried me away; and 
many were soon between us. Little was I 
suspicious that he had suffered the pangs of 
famine long before : alas ! and he had suffered 
them for me. Do I weep while I am telling 
you they ended? I could not have closed 
his eyes ; I was too young ; but I might have ■ 
received his last breath ; the only comfort of 
an orphan's bosom. Do you now think 
him blamable, /Esop ? 

yEsop. It was sublime humanity: it was for- 
bearance and self-denial which even the im- 
mortal gods have never shown us. He could 
endure to perish by those torments which 
alone are both acute and slow; he could 
number the steps of death and miss not one : 



but he could never see thy tears, nor let thee 
see his. O weakness above all fortitude! 
Glory to the man who rather bears a grief 
corroding his breast, than permits it to prowl 
beyond, and to prey on the tender and com- 
passionate ! Women commiserate the brave, 
and men the beautiful. The dominion of 
Pity has usually this extent, no wider. Thy 
father was exposed to the obloquy not only 
of the malicious, but also of the ignorant and 
thoughtless, who condemn in the mifortunate 
what they applaud in the prosperous. There 
is no shame in poverty or in slavery, if we 
neither make ourselves poor by our improvi- 
dence nor slaves by our venality. The 
lowest and highest of the human race are sold : 
most of the intermediate are also slaves, but 
slaves who bring no money in the market. 

JUiodope. Surely the great and powerful 
are never to be purchased : are they ? 

jEsop. It may be a defect in my vision, but 
I cannot see greatness on the earth. What 
they tell me is great and aspiring, to me seems 
little and crawling. Let me meet thy question 
with another. What monarch gives his 
daughter for nothing? Either he receives 
stone walls and unwilling cities in return, or 
he barters her for a parcel of spears and horses 
and horsemen, waving away from his declining 
and helpless age yovmg joyous life, and tramp- 
ling down the freshest and the sweetest memo- 
ries. Midas ^ in the highth of prosperity would 
have given his daughter to Lycaon,- rather 
than to the gentlest, the most virtuous, the 
most intelligent of his subjects. Thy father 
threw wealth aside, and, placing thee vmder 
the protection of Virtue, rose up from the 
house of Famine to partake in the festivals of 
the Gods. 

Release my neck, O Rhodope! for I have 
other questions to ask of thee about htm. 

Rhodope. To hear thee converse on him in 
such a manner, I can do even that. 

Msop. Before the day of separation was he 
never sorrowful? Did he never by tears or 
silence reveal the secret of his soul ? 

Rhodope. I was too infantine to perceive 
or imagine his intention. The night before 
I became the slave of Xanthus, he sat on the 
edge of my bed. I pretended to be asleep : he 
moved away silently and softly. I saw him 
collect in the hollow of his hand the crumbs I 

^ the type of avarice ^ a king of Arcadia noted 
for his impiety 



.ESOP AND RHODOPf: 



491 



had wasted on the floor, and then eat them, 
and then look if any Avere remaining. I 
thought he did so out of fondness for me, 
remembering that, even before the famine, 
he had often swept up off the table the bread 
I had broken, and had made me put it be- 
tween his lips. I would not dissemble very 
long, but said : 

"Come, now you have wakened me, you 
must sing me asleep again, as you did when I 
was little." 

He smiled faintly at this, and, after some 
delay, when he had walked up and down the 
chamber, thus began : 

"I wiU sing to thee one song more, my 
wakefid Rhodope ! my chirping bird ! over 
whom is no mother's wing ! That it may lull 
thee asleep, I will celebrate no longer, as in the 
days of wine and plenteousness, the glory of 
Mars, guiding in their mvisibly rapid onset 
the dappled steeds of Rhcesus.^ What hast 
thou to do, my little one, with arrows tired of 
clustering in the quiver? How much quieter 
is th}' pallet than the tents which whitened the 
plain of Simois ! ^ What knowest thou about 
the river Eurotas ? ^ What knowest thou about 
its ancient palace, once trodden by assembled 
Gods, and then polluted by the Phrygian? 
What knowest thou of perfidious men or of 
sanguinary deeds? 

"Pardon me, O goddess"* who presidest in 
Cythera! I am not irreverent to thee, but 
ever grateful. May she upon whose brow I 
lay my hand, praise and bless thee for ever- 
more ! 

"Ah, yes! continue to hold up above the 
coverlet those fresh and rosy palms clasped 
together : her benefits have descended on thy 
beauteous head, my child ! The Fates also 
have sung, beyond thy hearmg, of pleasanter 
scenes than snow-fed Hebrus ; ^ of more than 
dim grottos and sky-bright waters. Even 
now a low murmur swells upward to my ear : 
and not from the spindle comes the sound, but 
from those who sing slowly over it, bending aU 
three their tremulous heads together. I wish 
thou couldst hear it ; for seldom are their 
voices so sweet. Thy pillow intercepts the 
song perhaps: lie down again, lie down, my 
Rhodope ! I wiU repeat what they are saying : 

"'Happier shalt thou be, nor less glorious, 

* A Thracian hero ; Rhodopfi was from Thrace. 
^ a river near Troy ^ a river near Sparta * Venus 
* Cf. Lycidas, 1. 63. 



than even she,^ the truly beloved, for whose 
return to the distaff and the lyre the portals 
of Taenarus flew open. In the woody dells of 
Ismarus, and when she bathed among the 
swans of Strymon, the nymphs called her 
Eurydice. Thou shalt behold that fairest 
and that fondest one hereafter. But first 
thou must go mito the land of the lotos, where 
famine never cometh, and where alone the 
works of man are immortal.' 

"O my child! the undeceiving Fates have 
uttered this. Other powers have visited me, 
and have strengthened my heart with dreams 
and visions. We shall meet again, my 
Rhodope, in shady groves and verdant mead- 
ows, and we shall sit by the side of those 
who loved us." 

He was rising : I threw my arms about his 
neck, and, before I would let him go, I made 
him promise to place me, not by the side, but 
between them : for I thought of her who had 
left us. At that time there were but two, O 
.^sop. 

You ponder : you are about to reprove my 
assurance in having thus repeated my own 
praises. I would have omitted some of the 
words, only that it might have disturbed the 
measure and cadences, and have put me out. 
They are the very words my dearest father 
sang ; and they are the last : yet, shame upon 
me! the nurse (the same who stood listening 
near, who attended me into this country) 
coidd remember them more perfectly: it is 
from her I have learnt them since ; she often 
sings them, even to herself. 

/Esop. So shall others. There is much 
both in them and in thee to render them 
memorable. 

FJwdope. Who flatters now ? 

Msop. Flattery often runs beyond Truth, 
in a hurry to embrace her; but not here. 
The dullest of mortals, seeing and hearing 
thee, would never misinterpret the prophecy 
of the Fates. 

If, turning back, I could overpass the vale 
of years, and could stand on the mountain- 
top, and could look again far before me at the 
bright ascending morn, we would enjoy the 
prospect together; we would walk along the 
summit hand in hand, Rhodope, and we 
would only sigh at last when we found our- 
selves below with others. 

* Eur>'dice ; for her story, see Gayley's Classic 
Myths, pp. 185-8, 



492 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



ROSE AYLMER 

Ah, what avails the sceptred race, 

Ah, what the form divine ! 
What every virtue, every grace ! 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see, 
A night of memories and of sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 



A FIESOLAN IDYL 

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light 

bound 
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires. 
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night. 
Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em. 
And softer sighs that know not what they 

want, 
Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree. 
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier 

ones 
Of sights in Fiesole right up above, 
While I was gazing a few paces off 
At what they seem'd to show me with their 

nods, lo 

Their frequent whispers and their pointing 

shoots, 
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps 
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. 
I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd forth 
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat. 
Such I believed it must be. How could I 
Let beast o'erpower them ? when hath wind or 

rain 
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me, 
And I (however they might bluster round) 
Walk'd off ? 'Twere most ungrateful : for 

sweet scents ■ 20 

Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts. 
And nxirse and pillow the dull memory 
That would let drop without them her best 

stores. 
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love. 
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 
To let all flowers Uve freely, and aU die 
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls de- 
part) 
Among their kindred in their native place. 
I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head 
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 30 
And not reproach'd me ; the ever-sacred cup 
Of the pure lily hath between my hands 



Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. 
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves 
More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
I saw the foot that, although half -erect 
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up 
To what she wanted : I held down a branch 
And gather'd her some blossoms ; since their 
• hour 40 

Was come, and bees had wounded them, and 

flies 
Of harder wing were working their way thro' 
And scattering them in fragments under foot. 
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved. 
Others, ere broken off, feU into sheUs, 
For such appear the petals when detach'd. 
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white hke snow. 
And like snow not seen through, by eye or 

sun: 
Yet every one her gown received from me 
Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, 50 
But so she praised them to reward my care. 
I said, "You find the largest." "This in- 

_ deed," 
Cried she, " is large and sweet." She held one 

forth. 
Whether for me to look at or to take 
She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her 

doubt. 
I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a part 
Of her own self ; fresh, fuU, the most mature 
Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
To faU, and yet unfaUen. She drew back 60 
The boon she tender'd, and then finding not 
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, 
Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 



TO ROBERT BROWNING 

There is delight in singing, though none hear 
Beside the singer ; and there is delight 
In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
And see the prais'd far off him, far above. 
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, 
Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for 

thee. 
Browning ! Since Chaucer was aHve and hale, 
No man hath walk'd along our roads with step 
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 10 
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the 

breeze 
Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 



493 



Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi,^ where 
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 



WHY 

Why do our joys depart 
For cares to seize the heart? 
I know not. Nature says, 
Obey ; and Man obeys. 
I see, and know not why, 
Thorns live and roses die. 



ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 

I strove with none, for none was worth my 
strife, 

Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art ; 
I warmed both hands before the fire of life, 

It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 



ON DEATH 

Death stands above me, whispering low 
I know not what into my ear : 

Of his strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear. 



THOMAS HOOD (i 798-1845) 
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt." 8 

"Work! work! work! 

While the cock is crowing aloof ! 
And work — work — work, 

Till the stars shine through the roof ! 
It's Oh ! to be a slave 

.\long with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian w^ork ! 16 

^ Towns of southern Italy, whither Browning 
was going. 



"Work — work — work. 

Tin the brain begins to swim ; 
Work — work — work, 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim I 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
TiU over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream ! 24 

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear ! 

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives ! 
It is not linen you're wearing out 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A Shroud as well as a Shirt. 32 

"But why do I talk of Death? 

That Phantom of grisly bone, 
I hardly fear its terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own. 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
Oh, God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 40 

"Work — work — work ! 

My labour never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shatter'd roof — this naked floor — 

A table — • a broken chair — 
And a w^all so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 48 

"Work — work — w^ork 1 

From weary chime to chime. 
Work — work — work, 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band. 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd. 

As weU as the w-eary hand. 56 

"Work — work — w^ork, 

In the duU December light, 
And work — work — work, 

When the weather is warm and bright — 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swaUows cling 
As if to show me their sunny backs 

And twit me with the spring. 64 



494 



WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 



''Oh ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowsHp and primrose sweet — 
With the sky above my head. 

And the grass beneath my feet ; 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal. 72 

"Oh ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 

But only time for Grief ! 
A Httle weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread ! " 80 

With iingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
Would that its tone could reach the Rich ! — 

She sang this "Song of the Shirt !" 89 



RUTH 

She stood breast-high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of mom. 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 4 

On her cheek an autumn flush. 

Deeply ripen 'd ; — such a blush 

In the midst of brown was born. 

Like red poppies grown with com. 8 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 

Which were blackest none could tell. 

But long lashes veiled a light, 

That had else been all too bright. 1 2 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks. 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 16 

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean. 
Where I reap thou should'st but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
Share my harvest and my home. 20 



WINTHROP MACKWORTH 
PRAED (1802-1839) 

THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM 

Years — years ago, — ere yet my dreams 

Had been of being wise or witty, — 
Ere I had done with writing themes. 

Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty ^ ; — 
Years — years ago, — while all my joy 

Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 

I feU in love with Laura Lily. 8 

I saw her at the County Ball : 

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle, 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that set young hearts romancing ; 
She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 15 

And then she danced — O Heaven, her 
dancing ! 

Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 

I never saw a waist so slender ! 
Her every look, her every smile. 

Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 23 

And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. 

She talked, — of politics or prayers, — 

Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's son- 
nets, — 
Of danglers — or of dancing bears, 

Of battles — or the last new bonnets, 
By candlelight, at twelve o'clock. 

To me it mattered not a tittle ; 
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,^ 31 

I might have thought they murmured Little.^ 

Through sunny May, through sultiy June, 

I loved her with a love eternal ; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal : 
My mother laughed ; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
My father frowned ; but how should gout 

See any happiness in kneeling ? 40 

^ a writer on law ^ a philosopher, of. p. 238 
* a pseudonym of Thomas Moore, writer of love 
songs 



DEATH'S JEST-BOOK 



495 



She was the daughter of a Dean, 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; 
She had one brother, just thirteen, 

Whose colour was extremely hectic ; 
Her grandmother for many a year 

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
Her second cousin was a peer. 

And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 48 

But titles, and the three per cents, 

And mortgages, and great relations, 
And India bonds, and tithes, and rents, 

Oh, what are they to love's sensations? 
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — 

Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses; 
He cares as little for the Stocks, 

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 56 

She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach, 

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : 
She botanised ; I envied each 

Yoimg blossom in her boudoir fading : 
She warbled Handel ; ^ it was grand ; 

She made the Catalani^ jealous: 
She touched the organ ; I could stand 

For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 64 

She kept an album, too, at home. 

Well filled with all an album's glories ; 
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, 

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; 
Soft songs to Jidia's cockatoo, 

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter ; 
And autographs of Prince Leboo,^ 

And recipes for elder-water. 72 

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; 

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted, 
Her poodle dog was quite adored. 

Her sayings were extremely quoted ; 
She laughed, and every heart was glad, 

As if the taxes were abolished ; 
She frowned, and every look was sad. 

As if the Opera were demolished. 80 

She smiled on many, just for fun, — 
I knew that there was nothing in it ; 

I was the first — the only one 

Her heart had thought of for a minute. — 

I knew it, for she told me so, 

In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 

' Handel's music was popular in Eng;land at 
this time - an Italian prima donna ^ Prince Le 
Beau, a distinguished Belgian diplomat 



She wrote a charming hand, — and oh ! 
How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 88 

Our love was like most other loves ; — 

A little glow, a little shiver, 
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, 

And " Fly not yet" — upon the river ; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir, 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ; 
A miniature, a lock of hair. 

The usual vows, — and then we parted. 96 

We parted ; months and years rolled by ; 

W^e met again four summers after : 
Our parting was all sob and sigh ; 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter : 
For in my heart's most secret cell 

There had been many other lodgers ; 
And she was not the ball-room's belle, 

But only — Mrs. Something Rogers ! 104 

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 

(1803-1849) 

From DEATH'S JEST-BOOK 

SONG 

Old Adam, the carrion crow. 
The old crow of Cairo ; 
He sat in the shower, and let it flow 
Under his tail and over his crest ; 
And through every feather 
Leaked the wet weather ; 
And the bough swung under his nest ; 
For his beak it was heavy with marrow. 
Is that the wind dying? O no ; 
It's only two devils, that blow 
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro. 
In the ghosts' moonshine. 1 2 

Ho ! Eve, my grey carrion wife. 

When we have supped on kings' marrow. 
Where shall we drink and make merry our 
life? 
Our nest it is Queen Cleopatra's skull, 
'Tis cloven and cracked, 
And battered and hacked. 
But with tears of blue eyes it is full: 
Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo. 
Is that the wind dying? O no; 
It's only two devils, that blow 
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro, 
In the ghosts' moonshine. 24 



496 



THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 



DREAM-PEDLARY 

If there were dreams to sell, 

What would you buy ? 
Some cost a passing beU ; 

Some a light sigh, 
That shakes from Life's fresh crown 
Only a rose-leaf down. 
If tlaere were dreams to seU, 
Merry and sad to tell, 
And the crier rang the bell, 

What would you buy ? 

A cottage lone and stiU, 

With bowers nigh, 
Shadowy, my woes to stiU, 

Until I die. 
Such pearl from Life's fresh crown 
Fain would I shake me down. 
Were dreams to have at will, 
This would best heal my ill. 

This would I buy. 

But there were dreams to sell 

111 didst thou buy ; 
Life is a dream, they teU, 

Waking, to die. 



19 



Dreaming a dream to prize, 
Is wishing ghosts to rise ; 
And, if I had the spell 
To call the buried weU, 

Which one wovild I ? • 28 

If there are ghosts to raise, 

What shall I call, 
Out of hell's murky haze, 

Heaven's blue pall ? 
Raise my loved long-lost boy 
To lead me to his joy. — 
There are no ghosts to raise ; 
Out of death lead no ways ; 

Vain is the call. 37 

Know'st thou not ghosts to sue, 

No love thou hast. 
Else lie, as I wiU do, 

And breathe thy last. 
So out of Life's fresh crown 
Fall like a rose-leaf down. 
Thus are the ghosts to woo ; 
Thus are all dreams made true, 

Ever to last ! 46 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 



THOMAS CARLYLE (i 795-1881) 

SARTOR RESARTUS 

BOOK II, CHAPTER VII 

The Everlasting No 

Under the strange nebulous envelopment, 
wherein our Professor has now shrouded hirti- 
self, no doubt but his spiritual nature is nev- 
ertheless progressive, and growing: for how 
can the "Son of Time," in any case, stand 
still? We behold him, through those dim 
years, in a state of crisis, of transition : his 
mad Pilgrimings, and general solution into 
aimless Discontinuity, what is all this but a 
mad Fermentation ; wherefrom, the fiercer it 
is, the clearer product will one day evolve 
itself? 

Such transitions are ever full of pain : thus 
the Eagle when he moults is sickly ; and, to 
attain his new beak, must harshly dash-off 
the old one upon rocks. What Stoicism so- 
ever our Wanderer, in his individual acts and 
motions, may affect, it is clear that there is a 
hot fever of anarchy and misery raving within ; 
coruscations of which flash out : as, indeed, 
how coidd there be other? Have we not 
seen him disappointed, bemocked of Destiny, 
through long years? All that the young 
heart might desire and pray for has been 
denied ; nay, as in the last worst instance, 
offered and then snatched away. Ever an 
"excellent Passivity"; but of useful, reason- 
able Activity, essential to the former as Food 
to Hunger, nothing granted : tiU at length, in 
this wild Pilgrimage, he must forcibly seize for 
himself an Activity, though useless, unreason- 
able. Alas, his cup of bitterness, which had 
been filling drop by drop, ever since the first 
"ruddy morning" m the Hinterschlag Gym- 
nasium,! was at the very lip; and then with 
that poison-drop, of the Towgood-and- 

^ Smite-behind Highschool (Annan Academy, 
where Carlyle went to school) 



Blumine^ business, it runs over, and even 
hisses over in a deluge of foam. 

He himself says once, with more justice 
than originality : "Man is, properly speaking, 
based upon Hope, he has no other possession 
but Hope ; this world of his is emphatically 
the Place of Hope." What then was our Pro- 
fessor's possession? We see him, for the 
present, quite shut-out from Hope; looking 
not into the golden orient, but vaguely all 
around into a dim copper firmament, pregnant 
with earthquake and tornado. 

Alas, shut-out from Hope, in a deeper sense 
than we yet dream of ! For, as he wanders 
wearisomely through this world, he has now 
lost all tidings of another and higher. Full of 
religion, or at least of religiosity, as our Friend 
has since exhibited himself, he hides not 
that, in those days, he was wholly irreligious : 
"Doubt had darkened into Unbelief," says 
he ; " shade after shade goes grimi}^ over your 
soul, till you have the fixed, starless, Tartarean 
black." To such readers as have reflected, 
what can be called reflecting, on man's life, 
and happily discovered, in contradiction to 
much Profit-and-Loss Philosophy, speculative 
and practical, that Soul is not synonymous 
with Stomach ; who understand, therefore, in 
our Friend's words, "that, for man's well- 
being. Faith is properly the one thing needful ; 
how, with it. Martyrs, otherwise weak, can 
cheerfully endure the shame and the cross ; 
and without it, Worldlings puke-up their sick 
existence, by suicide, in the midst of luxury" : 
to such, it will be clear that, for a pure moral 
nature, the loss of his religious Belief was 
the loss of everything. Unhappy young man ! 
AU wounds, the crush of long-continued Des- 
titution, the stab of false Friendship, and of 
false Love, all wounds in thy so genial heart, 
would have healed again, had not its life- 
warmth been withdrawn. Well might he ex- 
claim, in his wild way: "Is there no God, 

^ Towgood, a friend of Teufelsdrockh's; 
Blumine (ironiGcr. Blume, a flower), the girl whom 
both loved 



497 



498 



THOMAS CARLYLE 



then; but at best an absentee God, sitting 
idle, ever since the first Sabbath, at the out- 
side of his Universe, and seeing it go? Has 
the word Duty no meaning ; is what we call 
Duty no divine Messenger and Guide, but a 
false earthly Fantasm, made-up of Desire and 
Fear, of emanations from the GaUows and 
from Doctor Graham's Celestial Bed ? ^ Hap- 
piness of an approving Conscience ! Did not 
Paul of Tarsus, w^hom admiring men have 
since named Saint, feel that he was ' the chief 
of sinners,' and Nero of Rome, jocund in 
spirit (Wohlgemuth), spend much of his time 
in fiddling? Foolish Wordmonger, and Mo- 
tive-grinder, who in thy Logic-mill hast an 
earthly mechanism for the Godlike itself, and 
wouldst fain grind me out Virtue from the 
husks of Pleasure, — I tell thee, Nay ! To 
the unregenerate Prometheus Vinctus^ of a 
man, it is ever the bitterest aggravation of his 
wretchedness that he is conscious of Virtue, 
that he feels himself the victim not of suffer- 
ing only, but of injustice. What then? Is 
the heroic inspiration we name Virtue but 
some Passion ; some bubble of the blood, 
bubbling in the direction others profit by? 
I know not : only this I know, if what thou 
namest Happiness be our true aim, then are 
we all astray. With Stupidity and sound 
digestion man may front much. But what, 
in these dull unimaginative days are the terrors 
of Conscience to the diseases of the Liver ! 
Not on Morality, but on Cookery, let us build 
our stronghold : there brandishing our frjdng- 
pan, as censer, let us offer sweet incense to the 
Devil, and live at ease on the fat things he has 
provided for his Elect !" 

Thus has the bewildered Wanderer to stand, 
as so many have done, shouting question after 
question into the Sibyl-cave^ of Destiny, and 
receive no Answer but an Echo. It is aU a 
' grim Desert, this once-fair world of his ; 
wherein is heard only the howling of wild- 
beasts, or the shrieks of despairing, hate-filled 
men ; and no Pillar of Cloud by day, and no 
Pillar of Fire by night,** any longer guides the 
Pilgrim. To such length has the spirit of 
Inquiry carried him. "But what boots it 
{was thut's) ? " cries he ; " it is but the common 

^ the invention of a quack for curing sterility 
^ Prometheus Bound — the victim of the wrath of 
Zeus because he stole fire from heaven for man- 
kind ^ visited by Aeneas {Aeneid, VI, 36 ff.) 
^ Cf. Exodus, xiii : 21, 22 



lot in this era. Not having come to spiritual 
majority prior to the Steele de Louis Quinze,^ 
and not being born purely a Loghead (Dumm- 
kopf), thou hadst no other outlook. The 
whole world is, like thee, sold to Unbelief; 
their old Temples of the Godhead, which for 
long have not been rainproof, crumble down ; 
and men ask now : Where is the Godhead ; 
our eyes never saw him?" 

Pitiful enough were it, for all these wild 
utterances, to call our Diogenes ^ wicked. Un- 
profitable servants as we all are, perhaps at 
no era of his life was he more decisively the 
Servant of Goodness, the Servant of God, 
than even now when doubting God's existence. 
"One circumstance I note," says he: "after 
all the nameless woe that Inquiry, which for 
me, what it is not always, was genuine Love 
of Truth, had wrought me, I nevertheless still 
loved Truth, and would bate no jot of my 
allegiance to her. ' Truth ! ' I cried, * though 
the Heavens crush me for following her : no 
Falsehood ! though a whole celestial Lubber- 
land ^ were the price of Apostasy.' In conduct 
it was the same. Had a divine Messenger 
from the clouds, or miraculous Handwriting 
on the wall, convincingly proclaimed to me 
This thou shall do, with what passionate readi- 
ness, as I often thought, would I have done it, 
had it been leaping into the infernal Fire. 
Thus, in spite of all Motive-grinders, and 
Mechanical Profit-and-Loss Philosophies, with 
the sick ophthalmia and hallucination they 
had brought on, was the Infinite nature of 
Duty still dimly present to me : living without 
God in the world, of God's light I was not 
utterly bereft ; if my as yet sealed eyes, with 
their unspeakable longing, could nowhere see 
Him, nevertheless in my heart He was present, 
and His heaven-written Law stUl stood legible 
and sacred there." 

Meanwhile, under all these tribulations, and 
temporal and spiritual destitutions, what must 
the Wanderer, in his silent soul, have en- 
dured ! "The painfuUest feeling," writes he, 
"is that of your own Feebleness (Unkraft); 
ever as the English Milton says, to be weak is 
the true misery. And yet of your Strength 
there is and can be no clear feeling, save b)^ 
what you have prospered in, by what you have 

^ Age of Louis XV, the age of scepticism ^ an 
eccentric Greek philosopher ^ the fabulous land 
of the lazy, where food grew read)- cooked on the 
trees and the vines flowed with wine 



SARTOR RESARTUS 



499 



done. Between vague wavering Capability 
and fixed indubitable Performance, what a 
difference ! A certain inarticulate Self-con- 
sciousness dwells dimly in us ; whicli only our 
Works can render articulate and decisively 
discernible. Our Worlis are the mirror 
wherein the spirit first sees its natural 
lineaments. Hence, too, the folly of that 
impossible Precept, Know thyself; till it be 
translated into this partially possible one, 
Know what thou canst work at. 

"But for me, so strangely unprosperous 
had I been, the net-result of my Workings 
amounted as yet simply to — Nothing. How 
then could I believe in my Strength, when 
there was as yet no mirror to see it in ? Ever 
did this agitating, yet, as I now perceive, quite 
frivolous question, remain to me insoluble: 
Hast thou a certain Faculty, a certain Worth, 
such even as the most have not ; or art thou 
the completest Dullard of these modern 
times ? Alas ! the fearfiil Unbelief is unbelief 
in yourself ; and how could I believe ? Had 
not my first, last Faith in myself, when even 
to me the Heavens seemed laid open, and I 
dared to love, been ail-too cruelly belied? 
The speculative Mystery of Life grew ever 
more mysterious to me ; neither in the prac- 
tical jSIystery had I made the slightest pro- 
gress, but been everywhere buffeted, foiled, 
and contemptuously cast out. A feeble unit 
in the middle of a threatening Infinitude, I 
seemed to have nothing given me but eyes, 
whereby to discern my own wretchedness. 
Invisible yet impenetrable walls, as of En- 
chantment, divided me from aU living : was 
there, in the wide world, any true bosom I 
could press trustfully to mine? O Heaven, 
No, there was none ! I kept a lock upon my 
lips : why should I speak much with that 
shifting variety of so-called Friends, in whose 
withered, vain and too-hungry souls, Friend- 
ship was but an incredible tradition? In 
such cases, your resource is to talk little, 
and that little mostly from the Newspapers. 
Now when I look back, it was a strange iso- 
lation I then lived in. The men and women 
around me, even speaking with me, were but 
Figures : I had, practically, forgotten that 
they were alive, that they were not merely 
automatic. In the midst of their crowded 
streets, and assemblages, I walked solitary ; 
and (except as it was my own heart, not an- 
other's, that I kept devouring) savage also, as 
the tiger in his jungle. Some comfort it 



would have been, could I, like a Faust, have 
fancied myself tempted and tormented of the 
Devil ; for a Hell, as I imagine, without Life, 
though only diabolic Life, were more frightful : 
but in our age of Down-pulling and Disbelief, 
the very DevU has been pulled down, you 
cannot so much as believe in a Devil. To me 
the Universe was all void of Life, of Purpose, 
of Volition, even of Hostility : it was one huge, 
dead, immeasurable Steam-engine, rolling on, 
in its dead indifference, to grind me limb from 
limb. O, the vast gloomy, solitary Golgotha,'' 
and Mill of Death ! Why was the Living 
banished thither companioniess, conscious? 
Why, if there is no Devil; nay, unless the 
Devil is your God?" 

A prey incessantly to such corrosions, might 
not, moreover, as the worst aggravation to 
them, the iron constitution even of a Teufels- 
drockh threaten to fail ? We conjecture that 
he has known sickness ; and, in spite of his 
locomotive habits, perhaps sickness of the 
chronic sort. Hear this, for example : "How 
beautiful to die of broken-heart, on Paper 1 
Quite another thing in practice ; every win- 
dow of your Feeling, even of your Intellect, 
as it were, begrimed and mud-bespattered, so 
that no pure ray can enter ; a whole Drugshop 
in your inwards ; the foredone soul drowning 
slowly in quagmires of Disgust !" 

Putting all which external and internal 
miseries together, may we not find in the 
following sentences, quite in our Professor's 
still vein, significance enough? "From Sui- 
cide a certain af tershine {N adischein) of Chris- 
tianity withheld me : perhaps also a certain 
indolence of character ; for, was not that a 
remedy I had at any time within reach? 
Often, however, was there a question present 
to me : Should some one now, at the turning 
of that corner, blow thee suddenly out of 
Space, into the other World, or other No- 
world, by pistol-shot, — how were it? On 
which ground, too, I have often, in sea-storms 
and sieged cities and other death-scenes, ex- 
hibited an imperturbability, which passed, 
falsely enough, for courage." 

" So had it lasted," concludes the Wanderer, 
"so had it lasted, as in bitter protracted Death- 
agony, through long years. The heart within 
me, unvisited by any heavenly dewdrop, was 
smouldering in sulphurous, slow-consiuning 
fire. Almost since earliest memory I had shed 

^ Place of skuUs 



500 



THOMAS CARLYLE 



no tear ; or once only when I, murmuring 
half-audibly, recited Faust's Deathsong, that 
wild Selig der den er im Siegesglanze findet 
(Happy whom he finds in Battle's splendour), 
and thought that of this last Friend even I was 
not forsaken, that Destiny itself could not 
doom me not to die. Having no hope, neither 
had I any definite fear, were it of Man or of 
Devil : nay, I often felt as if it might be 
solacing, could the Arch-Devil himself, 
though in Tartarean terrors, but rise to me, 
that I might tell him a little of my mind. 
And yet, strangely enough, I lived in a 
continual, indefinite, pining fear ; tremulous, 
pusillanimous, apprehensive of I knew not 
what : it seemed as if all things in the Heavens 
above and the Earth beneath woiild hurt me ; 
as if the Heavens and the Earth were but 
boundless jaws of a devouring monster, 
wherein I, palpitating, waited to be devoured. 

" Full of such humour, and perhaps the 
miserablest man in the whole French Capital 
or Suburbs, was I, one sviltry Dog-day, after 
much perambulation, toiling along the dirty 
little Rue Saint-Thomas dc VEnfer, among civic 
rubbish enough, in a close atmosphere, and 
over pavements hot as Nebuchadnezzar's 
Furnace ; whereby doubtless my spirits were 
little cheered ; when, all at once, there rose a 
Thought in me, and I asked myself: 'What 
art thou afraid of ? Wherefore, like a coward, 
dost thou forever pip and whimper, and go 
cowering and trembling? Despicable biped! 
what is the sum-total of the worst that lies 
before thee? Death? Well, Death; and 
say the pangs of Tophet too, and all that the 
DevQ and Man may, will, or can do against 
thee ! Hast thou not a heart ; canst thou not 
suft'er whatsoever it be; and, as a Child of 
Freedom, though outcast, trample Tophet 
itself under thy feet, while it consumes thee? 
Let it come, then ; I will meet it and defy it ! ' 
And as I so thought, there rushed like a stream 
of fire over my whole soul ; and I shook base 
Fear away from me forever. I was strong of 
unknown strength ; a spirit, almost a god. 
Ever from that time, the temper of my misery 
was changed: not Fear or whining Sorrow 
was it, but Indignation and grim fire-eyed 
Defiance. 

"Thus had the Everlasting No {das ewige 
Nein) pealed authoritatively through all the 
recesses of my Being, of my Me ; and then was 
it that my whole Me stood up, in native God- 
created majesty, and with emphasis recorded 



its Protest. Such a Protest, the most impor- 
tant transaction in Life, may that same Indig- 
nation and Defiance, in a psychological point 
of view, be fitly called. The Everlasting No 
had said: 'Behold, thou art fatherless, out- 
cast, and the Universe is mine (the Devil's) ' ; 
to which my whole Me now made answer: 
'/ am not thine, but Free, and forever hate 
thee ! ' 

"It is from this hour that I incline to date 
my Spiritual New-birth, or Baphometic^ 
Fire-baptism ; perhaps I directly thereupon 
began to be a Man." 

CHAPTER VIII 

Centre oe Indieference 

Though, after this "Baphometic Fire-bap- 
tism" of his, our Wanderer signifies that his 
Unrest was but increased ; as, indeed, "Indig- 
nation and Defiance," especially against 
things in general, are not the most peaceable 
inmates ; yet can the Psychologist surmise 
that it was no longer a quite hopeless Unrest ; 
that henceforth it had at least a fixed centre 
to revolve round. For the fire-baptised soul, 
long so scathed and thunder-riven, here feels 
its own Freedom, which feeling is its Bapho- 
metic Baptism : the citadel of its whole king- 
dom it has thus gained by assavdt ; and will 
keep inexpugnable ; outwards from which 
the remaining dominions, not indeed without 
hard battling, wfil doubtless by degrees be 
conquered and pacificated. Under another 
figure, we might say, if in that great moment, 
in the Rue Saint-Thomas de VEnfer, the old 
inward Satanic School was not yet thrown 
out of doors, it received peremptory judicial 
notice to quit; — whereby, for the rest, its 
howl-chantings, Ernulphus-cursings,- and re- 
bellious gnashings of teeth, might, in the 
meanwhUe, become only the more tumultuous, 
and difiicidt to keep secret. 

Accordingly, if we scrutinise these Pilgrim- 
ings well, there is perhaps discernible hence- 
forth a certain incipient method in their mad- 
ness. Not whoUy as a Spectre does Teufels- 
drockh now storm through the world ; at 
worst as a spectre-fighting JNIan, nay who will 

^ originally connected with mysterious rites 
attributed to the Templars ; here, spiritually 
illuminating ^ elaborate and voluminous cursings, 
cf. Tristram Shandy, bk. iii, ch. xi 



SARTOR RESARTUS 



501 



one day be a Spectre-queller. If pilgriming 
restlessly to so many " Saints' Wells," ^ and ever 
without quenching of his thirst, he neverthe- 
less finds little secular wells, whereby from 
time to time some alleviation is ministered. 
In a word, he is now, if not ceasing, yet inter- 
mitting to "eat his own heart" ; and clutches 
round him outwardly on the Not-Me for 
wholesomer food. Does not the following 
glimpse exliibit him in a much more natural 
state ? 

"Towns also and Cities, especially the an- 
cient, I failed not to look upon with interest. 
How beautiful'to see thereby, as tlirough a long 
vista, into the remote Time ; to have, as it 
were, an actual section of almost the earliest 
Past brought safe into the Present, and set 
before your eyes ! There, in that old City, 
was a live ember of Culinary Fire put down, 
sa}'- only two-thousand years ago ; and there, 
burning more or less triumphantly, with such 
fuel as the region yielded, it has burnt, and 
still burns, and thou thyself seest the very 
smoke thereof. Ah ! and the far more mys- 
terious live ember of Vital Fire was then also 
put down there ; and stUl miraculously burns 
and spreads ; and the smoke and ashes 
thereof (in these Judgment-Halls and Church- 
yards), and its bellows-engines (in these 
Churches), thou stOl seest; and its flame, 
looking out from every kind countenance, and 
every hateful one, still warms thee or scorches 
thee. 

"Of Man's Activity and Attainment the 
chief results are aeriform, mystic, and pre- 
served in Tradition only : such are his Forms of 
of Government, with the Authority they rest 
on ; his Customs, or Fashions both of Cloth- 
Habits and of Soul-Habits ; much more his 
collective stock of Handicrafts, the whole 
Faculty he has acquired of manipulating 
Nature: aU these things, as indispensable 
and priceless as they are, cannot in any way 
be fixed under lock and key, but must flit, 
spirit-like, on impalpable vehicles, from 
Father to Son ; if you demand sight of them, 
they are nowhere to be met with. Visible 
Ploughmen and Hammermen there have been, 
ever from Cain and Tubalcain- downwards: 
but where does your accumulated Agricul- 
tural, Metallurgic, and other Manufacturing 
Skill lie warehoused? It transmits itself on 

^ where people go to be cured of disease by 
miracle ^ Cf. Genesis, iv: 22 

AE 



the atmospheric air, on the sun's rays (by 
Hearing and Vision) ; it is a thing aeriform, 
impalpable, of quite spiritual sort. In like 
manner, ask me not, Where are the Laws; 
where is the Government ? In vain wilt thou 
go to Schonbrunn,^ to Downing Street,^ to the 
Palais Bourbon : ^ thou findest nothing there, 
,but brick or stone houses, and some bundles of 
Papers tied with tape. Where, then, is that 
same cunningly-devised or mighty Govern- 
ment of theirs to be laid hands on? Every- 
where, yet nowhere: seen only in its works, 
this too is a thing aeriform, invisible; or if 
you will, mystic and miraculous. So spirit- 
ual (gcistig) is our whole daily Life : all that 
we do springs out of Mystery, Spirit, invisible 
Force ; only like a little Cloud-image, or 
Armida's Palace,"* air-built, does the Actual 
body itself forth from the great mystic Deep. 
"Visible and tangible products of the Past, 
again, I reckon-up to the extent of three: 
Cities, with their Cabinets and Arsenals; 
then tilled Fields, to either or to both of which 
divisions Roads with their Bridges may be- 
long ; and thirdly — • Books. In which third 
truly, the last -invented, Ues a worth far sur- 
passing that of the two others. Wondrous 
indeed is the virtue of a true Book. Not like 
a dead city of stones, yearly crumbling, yearly 
needing repair ; more like a tilled field, but 
then a spiritual field : like a spiritual tree, let 
me rather say, it stands from year to year, and 
from age to age (we have Books that already 
number some hundred-and-fifty human ages) ; 
and yearly comes its new produce of leaves 
(Commentaries, Deductions, Philosophical, 
Political Systems ; or were it only Sermons, 
Pamphlets, Journalistic Essays), every one 
of which is talismanic and thaumaturgic, for 
it can persuade men. O thou who art able 
to write a Book, which once in the two 
centuries or oftener there is a man gifted to 
do, envy not him whom they name City- 
builder, and inexpressibly pity him whom they 
name Conqueror or City-burner ! Thou too 
art a Conqueror and Victor ; but of the true 
sort, namely over the Devil: thou too hast 
built what will outlast aU marble and metal, 

^ a palace near \''ienna, the seat of the Austrian 
government ' a street in London, where the chief 
government offices are ^ in Paris, now the Cham- 
ber of Deputies ■• Bower of Bliss in which the 
sorceress Armida holds the knight Rinaldo en- 
chanted, in Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered 



502 



THOMAS CARLYLE 



and be a wonder-bringing City of the Mnd, 
a Temple and Seminary and Prophetic 
Mount, whereto all kindreds of the Earth 
wiU pilgrim. — Fool ! why journeyest thou 
wearisomely, in thy antiquarian fervour, to 
gaze on the stone pyramids of Geeza or the 
clay ones of Sacchara ? ^ These stand there, 
as I can teU thee, idle and inert, looking over 
the Desert, foolishly enough, for the last 
three-thousand years : but canst thou not 
open thy Hebrew Bible, then, or even Luther's 
Version thereof?" 

No less satisfactory is his sudden appear- 
ance not in Battle, yet on some Battle-field; 
which, we soon gather, must be that of 
Wagram : ^ so that here, for once, is a certain 
approximation to distinctness of date. Omit- 
ting much, let us impart what follows : 

"Horrible enough! A whole Marchfeld^ 
strewed with shell-sphnters, cannon-shot, 
ruined tumbrils, and dead men and horses ; 
stragglers still remaining not so much as 
buried. And those red mould heaps : ay, 
there lie the Shells of Men, out of which all 
the Life and Virtue has been blown ; and now 
they are swept together, and cram_med-down 
out of sight, like blown Egg-shells ! • — • Did 
Nature, when she bade the Donau^ bring 
down his mould-cargoes from the Carinthian 
and Carpathian Heights, and spread them 
out here mto the softest, richest level, — 
intend thee, O Marchfeld, for a corn-bearing 
Nursery, whereon her children might be 
nursed ; or for a Cockpit, wherein they might 
the more commodiously be throttled and 
tattered? Vv^ere thy three broad highways, 
meeting here from the ends of Europe, made 
for Ammunition-wagons, then? Were thy 
Wagrams and Stillfrieds ^ but so many ready- 
built Case-mates, wherein the house of 
Hapsburg might batter with artillery, and 
with artillery be battered? Konig Ottokar, 
amid yonder hillocks, dies under Rodolf's^ 
truncheon ; here Kaiser Franz ^ falls a-swoon 
under Napoleon's : within which five cen- 
turies, to omit the others, how has thy 
breast, fair Plain, been defaced and defiled ! 
The greensward is torn-up and trampled- 

^ Ghizeh or Gizeh, and Sakkara, in EgyjDt 

* in Austria, fought in 1809 ^ the plain of Wagram 

* Danube ^ a village near Wagram ^ Ottocar, king 
of Bohemia was defeated in this plain by Rudolf 
of Hapsburg, 1278. '' Francis I of Austria, de- 
feated here by Napoleon 



down ; man's fond care of it, his fruit-trees, 
hedge-rows, and pleasant dwellings, blown- 
away with gunpowder ; and the kind seed- 
field lies a desolate, hideous Place of Skulls. — 
Nevertheless, Nature is at work; neither 
shall these Powder-DevHkins with their 
utmost devilry gainsay her : but all that gore 
and carnage will be shrouded-in, absorbed 
into manure ; and next year the Marchfeld 
will be green, nay greener. Thrifty un- 
wearied Nature, ever out of our great waste 
educing some little profit of thy own, — how 
dost thou, from the very carcass of the Killer, 
bring Life for the Living ! ^ * 

"What, speaking in quite unofi&cial lan- 
guage, is the net-purport and upshot of war? 
To my own knowledge, for example, there 
dwell and toil, in the British vUlage of Dum- 
drudge,2 usually some five-himdred souls. 
From these, by certain 'Natural Enemies' 
of the French, there are successively selected, 
during the French war, say thirty able-bodied 
men: Dumdrudge, at her own expense, has 
suckled and nursed them ; she has, not with- 
out difliculty and sorrow, fed them up to man- 
hood, and even trained them to crafts, so that 
one can weave, another build, another ham- 
mer, and the weakest can stand under thirty 
stone avoirdupois. Nevertheless, amid much 
weeping and swearing, they are selected; aU 
dressed in red ; and shipped away, at the 
public charges, some two-thousand miles, or 
say only to the south of Spain ; and fed there 
till vi^anted. And now to that same spot in the 
south of Spain, are thirty similar French arti- 
sans, from a French Dumdtudge, in like man- 
ner wending : till at length, after infinite effort, 
the two parties come into actual juxtaposi- 
tion ; and Thirty stands fronting Thirty, 
each with a gun in his hand. Straightway the 
word ' Fire ! ' is given : and they blow the 
souls out of one another ; and in place of 
sixty brisk useful craftsmen, the world has 
sixty dead carcasses, which it must bury, and 
anew shed tears for. Had these men any 
quarrel? Busy as the Devil is, not the 
smallest ! They lived far enough apart ; 
were the entirest strangers ; nay, in so wide 
a Universe, there was even unconsciously,' by 
Commerce, some mutual helpfulness between 
them. How then ? Simpleton ! their Gov- 
ernors had fallen-out ; and, instead of sboot- 

^ Cf. Judges, xiv : 8, 14 - a fictitious name = 
dumb drudge 



SARTOR RESARTUS 



503 



ing one another, had the ciinning to make 
these poor blockheads shoot. — Alas, so is it 
in Deutschland, and hitherto in all other 
lands; still as of old, 'what devilry soever 
Kings do, the Greeks must pay the piper! ' ^ — 
In that fiction of the English Smollett, it is 
true, the final Cessation of War is perhaps 
prophetically shadowed forth; where the 
two Natural Enemies, in person, take each a 
Tobacco-pipe, filled with Brimstone; light 
the same, and smoke in one another's faces 
till the weaker gives in : but from such pre- 
dicted Peace-Era, what blood-filled trenches, 
and contentious centuries, may still divide us ! " 

Thus can the Professor, at least in lucid 
intervals, look away from his own sorrows, 
over the many-coloured world, and pertin- 
ently enough note what is passing there. 
We may remark, indeed, that for the matter 
of spiritual cidture, if for nothing else, perhaps 
few periods of his life were richer than this. 
Internally, there is the most momentous 
instructive Course of Practical Philosophy, 
with Experiments, going on; towards the 
right comprehension of which his Peripatetic 
habits, favourable to Meditation, might help 
him rather than hinder. Externally, again, 
as he wanders to and fro, there are, if for 
the longing heart little substance, yet for the 
seeing eye sights enough : in these so bomad- 
less Travels of his, granting that the Satanic 
School was even partially kept down, what an 
incredible knowledge of our Planet, and its 
Inhabitants and their Works, that is to say, 
of all knowable things, might not Teufels- 
drockh acquire ! 

"I have read in most Public Libraries," 
says he, "including those of Constantinople 
and Samarcand : in most Colleges, except the 
Chinese JNIandarin ones, I have studied, or 
seen that there was no studymg. Unknown 
languages have I oftenest gathered from their 
natural repertory, the Air, by my organ of 
Hearing ; Statistics, Geographies, Topo- 
graphies came, through the Eye, almost of 
their own accord. The ways of Man, how he 
seeks food, and warmth, and protection for 
himself, in most regions, are ocularly known to 
me. Like the great Hadrian,- I meted-out 

^ "They who dance must pay the piper," and 
Horace, Epist. I, ii, 14: "Quicquid delirant rages, 
plectuntur Achi\T." ^ The emperor Hadrian, at 
the head of his army, paced out on foot the circle 
of his empire, as Carlyle says elsewhere. 



much of the terraqueous Globe with a pair of 
Compasses that belonged to myself only. 

"Of great Scenes, why speak? Three sum- 
mer days, I lingered reflecting, and composing 
{dichtete), by the Pine-chasms of Vaucluse;^ 
and in that clear lakelet moistened my bread. 
I have sat under the Palm-trees of Tadmor ; 
smoked a pipe among the ruins of Babylon. 
The great WaU of China I have seen ; and 
can testify that it is of gray brick, coped and 
covered with granite, and shows only second- 
rate masonry. — Great events, also, have not 
I witnessed? Kings sweated-down {ausgc- 
mergelt) into Berlin-and-Milan Customhouse- 
Officers ; the World well won, and the World 
well lost ; of tener than once a hundred-thou- 
sand individuals shot (by each other) in one 
day. Ail kindreds and peoples and nations 
dashed together, and shifted and shovelled 
into heaps, that they might ferment there, 
and in time unite. The birth-pangs of De- 
mocracy, wherewith convulsed Europe was 
groaning in cries that reached Heaven, could 
not escape me. 

"For great Men I have ever had the 
warmest predilection ; and can perhaps boast 
that few such in this era have wholly escaped 
me. Great Men are the inspired (speaking 
and acting) Texts of that divine Book of 
Revelations, whereof a Chapter is completed 
from epoch to epoch, and by some named His- 
tory ; to which inspired Texts your numerous 
talented men, and yoiu* mnumerable un- 
talented men, are the better or worse exegetic 
Commentaries, and wagonload of too-stupid, 
heretical or orthodox, weekly Sermons. For 
my study, the inspired Texts themselves ! 
Thus did not I, in very early days, having dis- 
guised me as a tavern-waiter, stand behind 
the field-chairs, under that shady Tree at 
Treisnitz ^ by the Jena Highway ; waiting upon 
the great Schiller and greater Goethe ; and 
hearing what I have not forgotten. For — " 

— But at this point the Editor recalls his 
principle of caution, some time ago laid down, 
and must suppress much. Let not the sacred- 
ness of Laurelled, still more, of Crowned 
Heads, be tampered with. Should we, at a 
future day, find circumstances altered, and the 
time come for Publication, then may these 
glimpses into the privacy of the lUuslrious be 
conceded; which for the present were little 

1 where Petrarch lived for a time, near A\-ignon 
^ correctly, Triesnitz, where the poets used to meet 



504 



THOMAS CARLYLE 



better than treacherous, perhaps traitorous 
Eavesdroppings. Of Lord Byron, therefore, 
of Pope Pius,^ Emperor Tarakwang,- and the 
"White Water-roses" (Chinese Carbonari 2) 
with their mysteries, no notice here ! Of Na- 
poleon himself we shall only, glancing from 
afar, remark that Teufelsdrockh's relation to 
him seems to have been of very varied char- 
acter. At first we find our poor Professor on 
the point of being shot as a spy ; then taken 
into private conversation, even pinched on 
the ear, yet presented with no money ; at last 
indignantly dismissed, almost thrown out of 
doors, as an "Ideologist." "He himself," 
says the Professor, "was among the completest 
Ideologists, at least Ideopraxists ^ : in the Idea 
(in der Idee) he lived, moved, and fought. 
The man was a Divine Missionary, though 
unconscious of it ; and preached, through the 
cannon's throat, that great doctrine, La 
carriere ouverte aux talens (The Tools to him 
that can handle them), which is our ultimate 
Political Evangel, wherein alone can Liberty 
lie. Madly enough he preached, it is true, as 
Enthusiasts and first Missionaries are wont, 
with imperfect utterance, amid much frothy 
rant ; yet as articulately perhaps as the case 
admitted. Or call him, if you will, an Ameri- 
can Backwoodsman, who had to fell unpene- 
trated forests, and battle with innumerable 
wolves, and did not entirely forbear strong 
liquor, rioting, and even theft ; whom, not- 
withstanding, the peaceful Sower wiQ follow, 
and, as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless." 

More legitimate and decisively authentic is 
Teufelsdrockh's appearance and emergence 
(we know not well whence) in the solitude of 
the North Cape, on that June Midnight. He 
has a "light-blue Spanish cloak" hanging 
round him, as his "most commodious, princi- 
pal, indeed sole upper-garment" ; and stands 
there, on the World-promontory, looking over 
the infinite Brine, like a little blue Belfry (as 
we figure), now motionless indeed, yet ready, 
if stirred, to ring quaintest changes. 

" Silence as of death," writes he ; " for Mid- 
night, even in the Arctic latitudes, has its 
character : nothing but the granite cliffs rudd)^- 
tingcd, the peaceable gurgle of that slow- 
heaving Polar Ocean, over which in the utmost 

^ Pius VII, died 1823 2 Taou-Kwang, began to 
reign in 1820 ^ a secret society in Italy, working 
for a republic, in the early part of the nineteenth 
century * those who put ideas into practice 



North the great Sun hangs low and lazy, as 
if he too were slumbering. Yet is his cloud- 
couch wrought of crimson and cloth-of-gold ; 
yet does his light stream over the mirror of 
waters, like a tremulous fire-pillar, shooting 
downwards to the abyss, and hide itself under 
my feet. In such moments. Solitude also is 
invaluable ; for who would speak, or be looked 
on, when behind him lies all Europe and Africa, 
fast asleep, except the watchmen ; and before 
him the silent Immensity, and Palace of the 
Eternal, whereof our Sun is but a porch-lamp ? 

"Nevertheless, in this solemn moment, 
comes a man, or monster, scrambling from 
among the rock-hoUows ; and, shaggy, huge 
as the Hyperborean Bear, haUs me in Russian 
speech : most probably, therefore, a Russian 
Smuggler. With courteous brevity, I signify 
my indifference to contraband trade, my hu- 
mane intentions, yet strong wish to be private. 
In vain :' the monster, counting doubtless on 
his superior stature, and minded to make sport 
for himself, or perhaps profit, were it with 
murder, continues to advance ; ever assailing 
me with his importunate train-oU breath ; and 
now has advanced, till we stand both on the 
verge of the rock, the deep Sea rippling 
greedily down below. What argument will 
avail? On the thick Hyperborean, cherubic 
reasoning, seraphic eloquence were lost. Pre- 
pared for such extreriiity, I, deftly enough, 
whisk aside one step ; draw out, from my 
interior reservoirs, a sufficient Birmingham 
Horse-pistol, and say, 'Be so obliging as retire. 
Friend {Erziehe sick zuriick, Freund), and with ■ 
promptitude ! ' This logic even the Hyper- 
borean understands : fast enough, with apolo- 
getic, petitionary growl, he sidles off ; and, 
except for suicidal as well as homicidal pur- 
poses, need not return. 

" Such I hold to be the genuine use of Gun- 
powder : that it makes all men alike tall. 
Nay, if thou be cooler, cleverer than I, if thou 
have more Mind, though all but no Body what- 
ever, then canst thou kill me first, and art the 
taller. Hereby, at last, is the Goliath power- 
less, and the David resistless ; savage Animal- 
ism is nothing, inventive Spiritualism is all. 

"With respect to Duels, indeed, I have my 
own ideas. Few things, in this so surprising 
world, strike me with more surprise. Two 
little visual Spectra of men, hovering with 
insecure enough cohesion in the midst of the 
Unfathomable, and to dissolve therein, at any 
rate, very soon, — make pause at the distance 



SARTOR RESARTUS 



50s 



of twelve paces asunder ; whirl round ; and, 
simultaneously by the cunningest mechanism, 
explode one another into Dissolution ; and off- 
hand become Air, and Non-extant ! Deuce 
on it (vcrdammt), the little spitfires! — Nay, 
I think with old Hugo von Trimberg : ^ ' God 
must needs laugh outright, could such a thing 
be, to see his wondrous Manikins here below.' " 

But amid these specialities, let us not forget 
the great generahty, which is our chief quest 
here : How prospered the inner man of Teu- 
felsdrockh under so much outward shifting? 
Does Legion- still lurk in him, though re- 
pressed, or has he exorcised that Devil's Brood ? 
We can answer that the symptoms continue 
promising. Experience is the grand spiritual 
Doctor ; and with him Teufelsdrockh has now 
been long a patient, swallowing many a bitter 
bolus. Unless our poor Friend belong to the 
numerous class of Incurables, which seems not 
likely, some cure wUl doubtless be effected. 
We should rather say that Legion, or the 
Satanic School, was now pretty well extirpated 
and cast out, but next to nothing introduced 
in its room ; whereby the heart remains, for 
the while, in a quiet but no comfortable state. 

"At length, after so much roasting," thus 
writes our Autobiographer, "I was what you 
might name calcined. Pray only that it be 
not rather, as is the more frequent issue, re- 
duced to a caput-mortuuml ^ But in any case, 
by mere dint of practice, I had grown familiar 
with many things. Wretchedness was still 
wretched ; but I could now partly see through 
it, and despise it. Which highest mortal, in 
this inane Existence, had I not found a 
Shadow-hunter or Shadow-hunted ; and, when 
I looked through his brave garnitures, miser- 
able enough? Thy wishes have all been 
sniffed aside, thought I : but what, had they 
even been all granted ! Did not the Boy 
Alexander'' weep because he had not two 
Planets to conquer ; or a whole Solar System ; 
or after that, a whole Universe? Ach Gott, 
when I gazed into these Stars, have they not 
looked-down on me as if with pity, from their 
serene spaces; Uke Eyes glistening with 
heavenly tears over the little lot of man ! 
Thousands of human generations, all as noisy 
as our own, have been swallowed-up of Time, 
and there remains no wreck of them any more ; 

. thirteenth centurj' German poet and moral 



ist ^ Cf. Mark, v : 9 ^ worthless remains 
ander the Great 



Alex- 



and Arcturus and Orion and Sirius and the 
Pleiades are still shining in their courses, clear 
and young, as when the Shepherd ^ first noted 
them in the plain of Shinar. Pshaw ! what is 
this paltry little Dog-cage 2 of an Earth ; what 
art thou that sittest whining there? Thou 
art still Nothing, Nobody: true; but who, 
then, is Something, Somebody? For thee the 
Family of Man has no use; it rejects thee; 
thou art wholly as a dissevered limb : so be 
it ; perhaps it is better so !" 

Too-heavy-laden Teufelsdrockh ! Yet surely 
his bands are loosening ; one day he will hurl 
the burden far from him, and bound forth 
free and with a second youth. 

"This," says our Professor, "was the Centre 
of Indifference I had now reached; through 
which whoso travels from the Negative Pole 
to the Positive must necessarily pass." 

CHAPTER IX 
The Everlasting Yea 

"Temptations in the Wilderness!" ex- 
claims Teufelsdrockh: "Have we not aU to 
be tried with such ? Not so easily can the old 
Adam, lodged in us by birth, be dispossessed. 
Our Life is compassed round with Necessity ; 
yet is the meaning of Life itself no other than 
Freedom, than Voluntary Force: thus have 
we a warfare ; in the beginning, especially, a 
hard-fought battle. For the God-given man- 
date, Work thou in Welldoing, lies mysteriously 
written, in Promethean ^ Prophetic Characters, 
in our hearts ; and leaves us no rest, night or 
day, tiU it be deciphered and obeyed ; till it 
burn forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted 
Gospel of Freedom. And as the clay-given 
mandate, Eat thou atid he filled, at the same 
time persuasively proclaims itself through 
every nerve, — must there not be a confusion, 
a contest, before the better Influence can 
become the upper? 

"To me nothing seems more natural than 
that the Son of Man, when such God-given 
mandate first prophetically stirs within him, 
and the Clay must now be vanquished or van- 
quish, — should be carried of the spirit into 

^ Cf. J oh, ix : 9 ; Babylonian shepherds (in 
the plain of Shinar) were regarded as the first 
astronomers. ^a wheel like a squirrel-cage 
^ perhaps, like Prometheus, full of love for the 
human race 



5o6 



THOMAS CARLYLE 



grim SoKtudes, and there fronting the Temp- 
ter do grimmest battle with him; defiantly 
setting him at naught, till he yield and fly. 
Name it as we choose : with or without visible 
DevU, whether in the natural Desert of rocks 
and sands, or in the populous moral Desert of 
selfishness and baseness, — to such Tempta- 
tion are we aU called. Unhappy if we are not ! 
Unhappy if we are but Half-men, in whom 
that divine handwriting has never blazed 
forth, all-subduing, ia true sun-splendour ; but 
quivers dubiously amid meaner hghts: or 
smoiolders, in dull pain, in darkness, under 
earthly vapours ! — Our Wilderness is the wide 
World in an Atheistic Century; our Forty 
Days are long years of suffering and fasting: 
nevertheless, to these also comes an end. Yes, 
to me also was given, if not Victory, yet the 
consciousness of Battle, and the resolve to 
persevere therein while life or faculty is left. 
To me also, entangled in the enchanted forests, 
demon-peopled, doleful of sight and of sound, 
it was given, after weariest wanderings, to 
work out my way into the higher sunlit slopes 
— of that Mountain which has no summit, or 
whose summit is in Heaven only !"^ 

He says elsewhere, under a less ambitious 
figure ; as figures are, once for all, natural to 
him: ''Has not thy Life been that of most 
sufficient men {tilchtigen Manner) thou hast 
known in this generation? An outflush of 
fooUsh young Enthusiasm, like the first fallow- 
crop, wherein are as many weeds as valuable 
herbs: this all parched away, under the 
Droughts of practical and spiritual Unbehef, 
as Disappointment, in thought and act, often- 
repeated gave rise to Doubt, and Doubt grad- 
ually settled into Denial ! If I have had a 
second-crop, and now see the perennial green- 
sward, and sit under umbrageous cedars, 
which defy all Drought (and Doubt) ; herein 
too, be the Heavens praised, I am not without 
examples, and even exemplars." 

So that, for Teufelsdrockh also, there has 
been a "glorious revolution": these mad 
shadow-hunting and shadow-hunted PUgrim- 
ings of his were but some purifying "Temp- 
tation in the Wilderness," before his apostolic 
work (such as it was) could begin ; which 
Temptation is now happily over, and the Devil 
once more worsted ! Was " that high moment 
in the Rue de rE^ifer," then, properly the turn- 



ing-point of the battle ; when the Fiend said, 
Worship me, or be torn in shreds; and was 
answered valiantly with an A page Satana .? ^ — 
Singular Teufelsdrockh, would thou hadst 
told thy singular story in plain words ! But 
it is fruitless to look there, in those Paper-bags, 
for such. Nothing but innuendoes, figurative 
crotchets : a typical Shadow, fitfully wavering, 
prophetico-satiric ; no clear logical Picture. 
"How paint to the sensual eye," asks he once, 
"what passes in the Holy-of-Hohes of Man's 
Soul ; in what words, known to these profane 
times, speak even afar-ofi of the unspeak- 
able?" We ask in turn: Why perplex these 
times, profane as they are, with needless ob- 
scurity, by omission and by commission? 
Not mystical only is our Professor, but whim- 
sical; and involves himself, now more than 
ever, in eye-bewildering chiaroscuro. Succes- 
sive glimpses, here faithfully imparted, our 
more gifted readers must endeavour to com- 
bine for their own behoof. 

He says: "The hot Harmattan ^ wind had 
raged itself out; its howl went silent within 
me; and the long-deafened soul could now 
hear. I paused in my wild wanderings ; and 
sat me down to wait, and consider ; for it was 
as if the hour of change drew nigh. I seemed 
to surrender, to renounce utterly, and say: 
Fly, then, false shadows of Hope ; I will chase 
you no more, I will believe you no more. 
And ye too, haggard spectres of Fear, I care 
not for you ; ye too are all shadows and a lie. 
Let me rest here: for I am way-weary and 
life-weary ; I will rest here, were it but to die : 
to die or to five is alike to me; alike insig- 
nificant." — And again : "Here, then, as I lay 
in that Centre of Indifference, cast, doubtless 
by benignant upper Influence, into a healing 
sleep, the heavy dreams roUed gradually 
away, and I awoke to a new Heaven and 
a new Earth. The first preliminary moral 
Act, Anniliilation of Seh {Selbsttddtung), had 
been happily accomplished ; and my mind's 
eyes were now imsealed, and its hands 
ungyved." 

Might we not also conjecture that the fol- 
lowing passage refers to his Locality, during 
this same "healing sleep"; that his PUgrim- 
staft* lies cast aside here, on "the high table- 
land" ; and indeed that the repose is already 
taking wholesome effect on him? If it were 



^ an allusion to the mountain seen in Dante's 
Divina Commedia 



^ "Away, Satan!" "a terrible wind on the 
coast of Guinea 



SARTOR RESARTUS 



507 



not that the tone, in some parts, has more of 
riancy,^ even of levity, than we could have ex- 
pected ! However, in Teufelsdrockli, there is 
always the strangest Dualism : light dancing, 
with guitar-music, will be going on in the fore- 
court, while by fits from within comes the faint 
whimpering of woe and wail. We transcribe 
the piece entire : 

"Beautiful it was to sit tliere, as in my 
skyey Tent, musing and meditating ; on the 
high table-land, in front of the Mountains; 
over me, as roof, the azure Dome, and around 
me, for walls, four azure-flowing cin-tains, — 
namely, of the Four azure Winds, on whose 
bottom-fringes also I have seen gilding. And 
then to fancy the fair Castles, that . stood 
sheltered in these Momitain hollows ; with 
their green flower-lawns, and white dames and 
damosels, lovely enough : or better still, the 
straw-roofed Cottages, wherein stood many a 
]Mother baking bread, with her children rovmd 
her : — all hidden and protectingly folded-up 
in the valley-folds; yet there and alive, as 
sure as if I beheld them. Or to see, as well 
as fancy, the nine Towns and Villages, that 
lay round my mountain -seat, which, in still 
weather, were wont to speak to me (by their 
steeple-bells) with metal tongue; and, in 
almost aU weather, proclaimed their vitality 
by repeated Smoke-clouds ; whereon, as on a 
culinary horologue,^ I might read the hour of 
the day. For it was the smoke of cookery, 
asvkind house\Yives at morning, midday, even- 
tide, were boihng their husbands' kettles; 
and ever a blue pillar rose up into the air, 
successively or simultaneously, from each of 
the nine, saying, as plainly as smoke could 
say : Such and such a meal is getting ready 
here. Not uninteresting ! For you have the 
whole Borough, with all its love-makings and 
scandal-mongeries, contentions and content- 
ments, as in miniature, and could cover it aU 
with your hat. — If, in my wide Wayfarings, 
I had learned to look into the business of the 
World in its details, here perhaps was the 
place for combining it into general propositions, 
and deducing inferences therefrom. 

"Often also could I see the black Tempest 
marching in anger through the distance: 
round some Schreckhorn,^ as yet grim-blue, 
woidd the eddying vapour gather, and there 
tumultuously eddy, and flow down like a mad 

^ spirit of laughter ^ horologe, clock ^ peak of 
terror; here generic for mountain 



witch's hair ; till, after a space, it vanished, 
and, in the clear sunbeam, your Schreckhorn 
stood smiling grim-white, for the vapour had 
held snow. How thou fermentest and elabo- 
ratest in thy great fermenting-vat and labora- 
tory of an Atmosphere, of a World, O Nature ! 
— Or what is Nature ? Ha ! why do I not 
name thee God? Art thou not the 'Living' 
Garment of God ? ' ^ O Heavens, is it, in very 
deed. He, then, that ever speaks through thee; 
that Uves and loves in thee, that Uves and 
loves in me? 

"Fore-shadows, call them rather fore-splen- 
dours, of that Truth, and Beginning of Truths, 
fell mysteriously over my soul. Sweeter than 
Dayspring to the Shipwrecked in Nova Zem- 
bla ; ah, like the mother's voice to her little 
child that strays bewildered, weeping, in un- 
known tumults ; like soft streamings of celes- 
tial music to my too-exasperated heart, came 
that Evangel. The Universe is not dead and 
demoniacal, a charnel-house with spectres; 
but godlike, and my Father's ! 

"With other eyes, too, could I now look 
upon my fellow man : with an infinite Love, 
an infinite Pity. Poor, wandering, wayward 
man ! Art thou not tried, and beaten with 
stripes, even as I am? Ever, whether thou 
bear the royal mantle or the beggar's gabar- 
dine, art thou not so weary, so heavy-laden; 
and thy Bed of Rest is but a Grave. O my 
Brother, my Brother, why cannot I shelter 
thee in my bosom, and wipe away all tears 
from thy eyes ! — Truly, the din of many- 
voiced Life, which, in this solitude, with the 
mind's organ, I could hear, "was no longer a 
maddening discord, but a melting one ; like 
inarticulate cries, and sobbings of a dumb 
creature, which in the ear of Heaven are 
prayers. The poor Earth, with her poor joys, 
was now my needy ]\Iother, not my cruel Step- 
dame; Man, with his so mad Wants and so 
mean Endeavours, had become the dearer to 
me ; and even for his sufferings and his sins, 
I now first named him Brother. Thus was I 
standing in the porch of that ^Sanctuary of 
Sorrow' ; by strange, steep ways, had I too 
been guided thither ; and ere long its sacred 
gates would open, and the 'Divine Depth of 
Sorrow' he disclosed to me." 

The Professor says, he here first got eye on 
the Knot that had been strangling him, and 

^from Goethe's Faust: "der Gottlieit leben- 
diges Kleid" 



5o8 



THOMAS CARLYLE 



straightway could unfasten it, and was free. 
"A vain interminable controversy," writes he, 
"touching what is at present called Origin of 
Evil, or some such thing, arises in every soul, 
since the beginning of the world ; and in every 
soul, that would pass from idle Suffering into 
actual Endeavouring, must first be put an end 
to. The most, in our time, have to go content 
with a simple, incomplete enough Suppression 
of this controversy ; to a few, some Solution 
of it is indispensable. In every new era, too, 
such Solution comes-out in different terms ; 
and ever the Solution of the last era has be- 
come obsolete, and is found unserviceable. 
For it is man's nature to change his Dialect 
from century to century; he cannot help it 
though he would. The authentic Church- 
Catechism of our present century has not yet 
fallen into my hands : meanwhile, for my own 
private behoof, I attempt to elucidate the 
matter so. Man's Unhappiness, as I con- 
strue, comes of his Greatness; it is because 
there is an Infinite in him, which with aU his 
cunning he cannot quite bury under the 
Finite. WiU the whole Finance Ministers 
and Upholsterers and Confectioners of modern 
Europe undertake, in joint-stock company, 
to make one Shoeblack happy? They cannot 
accomplish it, above an hour or two : for the 
Shoeblack also has a Soul quite other than his 
Stomach ; and would require, if you consider 
it, for his permanent satisfaction and satura- 
tion, simply this allotment, no more, and no 
less : God's infinite Universe altogether to him- 
self, therein to enjoy infinitely, and fill every 
wish as fast as it tose. Oceans of Hochheimer,^ 
a Throat like that of Ophiuchus ■? speak not of 
them ; to the infinite Shoeblack they are as 
nothmg. No sooner is your ocean filled, than 
he grvmibles that it might have been of better 
vintage. Try him with half of a Universe, of 
an Omnipotence, he sets to quarrelling with 
the proprietor of the other half, and declares 
himself the most maltreated of men. — Al- 
ways there is a black spot in our sunshine: 
it is even, as I said, the Shadow of Ourselves. 
"But the whim we have of Happiness is 
somewhat thus. By certain valuations, and 
averages, of our own striking, we come upon 
some sort of average terrestrial lot ; this we 
fancy belongs to us by nature, and of inde- 
feasible right. It is simple payment of our 

^ hock, a Rhine wine ^ an ancient constella- 
tion, also called Serpentarius, the serpent-bearer 



wages, of our deserts ; requires neither thanks 
nor complaint; only such overplus as there 
may be do we account Happiness ; any deficit 
again is Misery. Now consider that we have 
the valuation of our deserts ourselves, and 
what a fund of Self-conceit there is in each of 
us, — do you wonder that the balance should 
so often dip the wrong way, and many a Block- 
head cry : See there, what a payment ; was 
ever worthy gentleman so used ! — I tell thee, 
Blockhead, it all comes of thy Vanity; of 
what thou fanciest those same deserts of thine 
to be. Fancy that thou deservest to be 
hanged (as is most likely), thou wilt feel it 
happiness to be only shot : fancy that thou 
deservest to be hanged in a hair-halter, it will 
be a luxury to die in hemp. 

"So true it is, what I then said, that the 
Fraction of Life can be increased in value not 
so much by increasing your Numerator as by 
lessening your Denominator. Nay, unless my 
Algebra deceive me, Unity itself divided by 
Zero will give Infinity. Make thy claim of 
wages a zero, then ; thou hast the world imder 
thy feet. Well did the Wisest of our time^ 
write: 'It is only with Renrmciation {Entsa- 
gen) that Life, properly speaking, can be said 
to begin.' 

"I asked myself: What is this that, ever 
since earliest years, thou hast been fretting 
and fuming, and lamenting and self-torment- 
ing, on account of ? Say it in a word : is it 
not because thou art not happy? Because the 
Thou (sweet gentleman) is not sufficiently 
honoured, nourished, soft-bedded, and lov- 
ingly cared-for ? Foolish soul ! What Act 
of Legislature was there that thou shouldst be 
Happy? A Httle while ago thou hadst no 
right to be at aU. What if thou wert born and 
predestined not to be Happy, but to be Un- 
happy ! Art thou nothing other than a Vul- 
ture, then, that fliest through the Universe 
seeking after somewhat to eat ; and shrieking 
dolefully because carrion enough is not given 
thee? Close thy Byron; open thy Goethe." 

" Es leuchtet mir ein, I see a glimpse of it !" 
cries he elsewhere : "there is m man a Higher 
than Love of Happmess : he can do without 
Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessed- 
ness ! Was it not to preach-forth this same 
Higher that sages and martyrs, the Poet and 
the Priest, in all times, have spoken and suf- 
fered; bearing testimony, through life and 

^ Goethe 



SARTOR RESARTUS 



509 



through death, of the GodUke that is in Man, 
and how in the Godlike only has he Strength 
and Freedom? Which God-inspired Doc- 
trine art thou also honoured to be taught ; O 
Heavens ! and broke^ with manifold merciful 
.\fflictions, even tih thou become contrite, and 
learn it ! O, thank thy Destiny for these ; 
thankfully bear what yet remain : thou hadst 
need of them ; the Self in thee needed to be 
anniliUated. By benignant fever-paroxysms 
is Life rooting out the deep-seated chronic 
Disease, and triumphs over Death. On the 
roaring billows of Time, thou art not engulfed, 
but borne aloft into the azure of Eternity. 
Love not Pleasure; love God. This is the 
Everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is 
solved : wherein whoso walks and works, it 
is well with him." 

And again: "Small is it that thou canst 
trample the Earth with its injuries under thy 
feet, as old Greek Zeno^ trained thee: thou 
canst love the Earth while it injures thee, and 
even because it injures thee ; for this a Greater 
than Zeno was needed, and he too was sent. 
Knowest thou that ' Worship oj Sorrow'? The 
Temple thereof, founded some eighteen cen- 
turies ago, now lies in ruins, overgrown with 
jungle, the habitation of doleful creatures: 
nevertheless, venture forward ; in a low crypt, 
arched out of falling fragments, thou findest 
the Altar stiU there, and its sacred Lamp 
perennially burning." 

Without pretending to comment on which 
strange utterances, the Editor wUl only re- 
mark, that there lies beside them much of a 
still more questionable character ; unsuited to 
the general apprehension ; nay, wherein he 
himself does not see his way. Nebulous dis- 
quisitions on Religion, yet not without bursts 
of splendour; on the "perennial continuance 
of Inspiration " ; on Prophecy; that there are 
"true Priests, as well as Baal-Priests, in our 
own day": with more of the like sort. We 
select some fractions, by way of finish to this 
farrago. 

" Cease, my much-respected Herr von Vol- 
taire," thus apostrophises the Professor : 
" shut thy sweet voice ; for the task appointed 
thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou 
demonstrated this proposition, considerable or 
otherwise : That the Mythus of the Christian 
Religion looks not in the eighteenth century 
as it did in the eighth, Alas, were thy six- 

^ a stoic philosopher 



and-thirty quartos, and the six-and-thirty 
thousand other quartos and folios, and flying 
sheets or reams, printed before and since on 
the same subject, all needed to convince us of 
so little ! But what next ? Wilt thou help us 
to embody the divine Spirit of that Religion in 
a new Mythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, 
that our Souls, otherwise too like perishing, 
may live ? What ! thou hast no faculty in 
that kind? Only a torch for burning, no 
hammer for building? Take our thanks, 
then, and — thyself away. 

"Meanwhile what are antiquated Mythuses 
to me ? Or is the God present, felt in my own 
heart, a thing which Herr von Voltaire will dis- 
pute out of me ; or dispute into me ? To the 
'Worship of Sorrow' ascribe what origm and 
genesis thou pleasest, has not that Worship 
originated, and been generated ; is it not 
here ? Feel it in thy heart, and then say 
whether it is of God ! This is Belief ; all else 
is Opinion, — for which latter whoso will, let 
him worry and be worried." 

"Neither," observes he elsewhere, "shall ye 
tear-out one another's eyes, struggling over 
'Plenary Inspiration,'^ and such-like: try 
rather to get a little even Partial Inspiration, 
each of you for himself. One Bible I know, of 
whose Plenary Inspiration doubt is not so 
much as possible; nay with my own eyes I 
saw the God's-Hand writmg it: thereof all 
other Bibles are but Leaves, — say, in Picture- 
Writing to assist the weaker faculty." 

Or to give the wearied reader relief, and 
bring it to an end, let him take the following 
perhaps more intelligible passage : 

"To me, in this our life," says the Profes- 
sor, "which is an internecine warfare with the 
Time-spirit, other warfare seems questionable. 
Hast thou in any way a Contention with thy 
brother, I advise thee, think well what the 
meaning thereof is. If thou gauge it to the 
bottom, it is simply this : ' Fellow, see ! thou 
art taking more than thy share of Happiness 
in the world, something from my share : which, 
by the Heavens, thou shaft not; nay, I will 
fight thee rather.' — .\las, and the whole lot 
to be divided is such a beggarly matter, truly 
a 'feast of shells,' for the substance has been 
spilled out : not enough to quench one Appe- 
tite ; and the collective human species clutch- 
ing at them ! — Can we not, in all such cases, 

^ that which excludes all defects in the expres- 
sion of it 



5IO 



THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY 



rather say : 'Take it, thou too-ravenous indi- 
vidual; take that pitiful additional fraction 
of a share, which I reckoned mine, but which 
thou so wantest; take it with a blessing: 
would to Heaven I had enough for thee ! ' — 
If Fichte's Wissenschaftslehre ^ be, ' to a certain 
extent. Applied Christianity,' surely to a still 
greater extent, so is this. 'We have here not a 
Whole Duty of Man, yet a Half Duty, 
namely, the Passive half: could v/e but do 
it, as we can demonstrate it ! 

"But indeed Conviction, were it never so 
excellent, is worthless till it convert itself into 
Conduct. Nay, properly Conviction is not 
possible till then ; inasmuch as all Speculation 
is by nature endless, formless, a vortex amid 
vortices : only by a felt indubitable certainty 
of Experience does it find any centre to re- 
volve round, and so fashion itself into a sys- 
tem. Most true is it, as a wise man teaches 
us, that 'Doubt of any sort cannot be removed 
except by Action.' On which ground, too, 
let him who gropes painfully in darkness or 
uncertain light, and prays vehemently that 
the dawn may ripen into day, lay this other 
precept weU to heart, which to m-e was of in- 
valuable service : ' Do the Duty which Iks 
nearest thee,'' which thou knowest to be a 
Duty ! Thy second Duty will already have 
become clearer. 

"May we not say, however, that the hour 
of Spiritual Enfranchisement is even this : 
When your Ideal World, wherein the whole 
man has been dimly struggling and inexpres- 
sibly languishing to work, becomes revealed 
and thrown open; and you discover, with 
amazement enough, like the Lothario in Wil- 
helm Meister,^ thai your 'America is here or 
nowhere ' ? The Situation that has not its 
Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occupied by 
man. Yes, here, in this poor, miserable, 
hampered, despicable Actual, wherein thou 
even now standest, here or nowhere is thy Ideal : 
work it out therefrom ; and working, believe, 
live, be free. Fool ! the Ideal is in thyself, 
the impediment too is in thyself : thy Con- 
dition is but the stuff thou art to shape that 
same Ideal out of : what matters whether 
such stuff be of this sort or that, so the Form 
thou give it be heroic, be poetic ? O thou that 

^ the chief work of the German metaphysician 
Fichte, of which the full title is, in English : 
Fundamental Principles of the Whole Theory of 
Science ^ a novel by Goethe 



pinest in the imprisonment of the Actual, and 
criest bitterly to the gods for a kingdom 
wherein to rule and create, know this of a 
truth : the thing thou seekest is already with 
thee, 'here or nowhere,' c^ouldst thou only see ! 

"But it is with man's Soul as it was with 
Nature : the beginning of Creation is — 'Light. 
Till the eye have vision, the whole members 
are in bonds. Divine moment, when over the 
tempest-tost SchiI, as once over the wUd-wel- 
tering Chaos, it is spoken : Let there be light ! 
Ever to the greatest that has felt such moment, 
is it not miraculous and God-announcmg ; 
even as, vmder simpler figures, to the simplest 
and least. The mad primeval Discord is 
hushed ; the rudely-jumbled conflicting ele- 
ments bind themselves into separate Firma- 
ments : deep silent rock-foundations are built 
beneath ; and the skyey vault with its ever- 
lasting Luminaries above : instead of a dark 
wasteful Chaos, we have a blooming, fertile, 
Heaven-encompassed World. 

"I too could now say to myself: Be no 
longer a Chaos, but a World, or even World- 
kin.^ Produce ! Produce ! Were it but the 
pitifuUest infinitesimal fraction of a Product, 
prodvice it, in God's name ! 'Tis the utmost 
thou hast in thee : out with it, then. Up, up ! 
Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with 
thy Avhole might. Work while it is caUed To- 
day ; for the Night cometh, wherein no man 
can work." 

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD 

MACAULAY (1800-1859) 

THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 

VOLUME I 
From Chapter HI 

I intend, in this chapter, to give a descrip- 
tion of the state in which England was at the 
time when the crown passed from Charles the 
Second to his brother. Such a description, 
composed from scanty and dispersed materials, 
must necessarily be very imperfect. Yet it 
may perhaps correct some false notions which 
would make the subsequent narrative unin- 
telligible or uninstructive. 

If we would study with profit the history of 
our ancestors, we must be constantly on our 

^ little world 



THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 



511 



guard against that delusion which the well- 
known names of families, places, and offices 
naturally produce, and must never forget that 
the country of which we read was a very dif- 
ferent country from that in which we live. 



Could the England of 1685 be, by some 
magical process, set before our eyes, we 
should not know one landscape in a hundred 
or one building in ten thousand. The 
country- gentleman would not recognise his 
own fields. The inhabitant of the town would 
not recognise his own street. Everything 
has been changed but the great features of 
nature, and a few massive and durable works 
of human art. We might find out Snowdon 
and Windermere, the Cheddar Cliffs and 
Beachy Head. We might find out here and 
there a Norman minster, or a castle which 
witnessed the wars of the Roses. But, with 
such rare exceptions, everything would be 
strange to us. Many thousands of square 
miles which are now rich com land and 
meadow, intersected by green hedgerows, and 
dotted with villages and pleasant country 
seats, would appear as moors overgrown with 
furze, or fens abandoned to wild ducks. We 
should see straggling huts built of wood and 
covered with thatch, where we now see manu- 
facturing towns and seaports renowned to the 
farthest ends of the world. The capital itself 
would shrink to dimensions not much exceed- 
ing those of its present suburb on the south of 
the Thames.^ Not less strange to us would be 
the garb and manners of the people, the furni- 
ture and the equipages, the interior of the 
shops and dwellings. Such a change in the 
state of a nation seems to be at least as well 
entitled to the notice of a historian as any 
change of the d^Tiasty or of the ministry. 

One of the first objects of an inquirer, who 
wishes to form a correct notion of the state of 
a community at a given time, must be to as- 
certain of how many persons that community 
then consisted. Unfortunately the popula- 
tion of England in 1685 cannot be ascertained 
with perfect accuracy. For no great state had 
then adopted the wise course of periodically 
numbering the people. All men were left to 
conjecture for themselves; and, as they 
generally conjectured without examining facts, 
and under the influence of strong passions and 

^ Southwark 



prejudices, their guesses were often ludicrously 
absu'rd. Even intelligent Londoners ordi- 
narily talked of London as containing several 
millions of souls. It was confidently asserted 
by many that, during the thirty-five years 
which had elapsed between the accession of 
Charles the First and the Restoration, the 
population of the City had increased by two 
millions. Even while the ravages of the 
plague and fire were recent, it was the fashion 
to say that the capital still had a million and 
a half of inhabitants. Some persons, dis- 
gusted by these exaggerations, ran violently 
into the opposite extreme. Thus Isaac Vos- 
sius, a man of undoubted parts and learning, 
strenuously maintained that there were only 
two millions of human beings in England, 
Scotland, and Ireland taken together. 

We are not, however, left without the means 
of correcting the wild blunders into which 
some minds Avere hurried by national vanity 
and others by a morbid love of paradox. 
There are extant three computations which 
seem to be entitled to peculiar attention. 
They are entirely independent of each other: 
they proceed on different principles ; and yet 
there is httle difference in the results. 



Of these three estimates, framed without 
concert by different persons from different sets 
of materials, the highest, which is that of Kmg, 
does not exceed the lowest, which is that of 
Finlaison,^ by onetwelf th. We may, therefore, 
with confidence pronounce that, when James 
the Second reigned, England contained be- 
tween five million and five million five hun- 
dred thousand inhabitants. On the very 
highest supposition she then had less than one 
third of her present population, and less than 
three times the population which is now col- 
lected in her gigantic capital. 

******* 

We should be much mistaken if we pictured 
to ourselves the squires of the seventeenth 
century as men bearing a close resemblance to 
their descendants, the country members and 
chairmen of quarter sessions with whom we 
arc famihar. The modern countrv^ gentleman 
generally receives a liberal education, passes 
from a distinguished school to a distinguished 
college, and has ample opportunity to become 

^ Gregory King (1648-1712) and John Fin- 
laison (i 783-1860), English statisticians 



512 



THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY 



an excellent scholar. He has generally seen 
something of foreign countries. A consider- 
able part of his life has generally been passed 
in the capital ; and the refinements of the cap- 
ital follow him into the country. There is per- 
haps no class of dweUings so pleasing as the 
rural seats of the English gentry. In the 
parks and pleasure grounds, nature, dressed 
yet not disguised by art, wears her most allur- 
ing form. In the buildings, good sense and 
good taste combine to produce a happy union 
of the comfortable and the graceful. The pic- 
tures, the musical instruments, the library, 
would in any other country be considered as 
proving the owner to be an eminently polished 
and accomplished man. A country gentle- 
man who witnessed the Revolution was prob- 
ably in receipt of about a fourth part of the 
rent which his acres now yield to his posterity. 
He was, therefore, as compared with his pos- 
terity, a poor man, and was generally under 
the necessity of residing, with little interrup- 
tion, on his estate. To travel on the Conti- 
nent, to maintain an establishment in London, 
or even to visit London frequently, were pleas- 
ures in which only the great proprietors could 
indulge. It may be confidently affirmed that 
of the squires whose names were then in the 
Commissions of Peace and Lieutenancy not 
one in twenty went to town once in five years, 
or had ever in his life wandered so far as Paris. 
Many lords of manors had received an educa- 
tion differing Uttle from that of their menial 
servants. The heir of an estate often passed 
his boyhood and youth at the seat of his 
family with no better tutors than grooms and 
gamekeepers, and scarce attained learning 
enough to sign his name to a Mittimus.^ If 
he went to school and to college, he generally 
returned before he was twenty to the seclusion 
of the old hall, and there, unless his mind were 
very happily constituted by nature, soon for- 
got his academical pursuits in rural business 
and pleasures. His chief serious employment 
was the care of his property. He examined 
samples of grain, handled pigs, and, on market 
days, made bargains over a tankard with 
drovers and hop merchants. His chief pleas- 
ures were commonly derived from field sports 
and from an imrefined sensuality. His lan- 
guage and pronunciation were such as we 
should now expect to hear only from the most 
ignorant clowns. His oaths, coarse jests, and 

^ a writ of commitment to prison 



scurrilous terms of abuse, were uttered with 
the broadest accent of his province. It was 
easy to discern, from the first words which he 
spoke, whether he came from Somersetshire 
or Yorkshire. He troubled himself little 
about decorating his abode, and, if he at- 
tempted decoration, seldom produced any- 
thing but deformity. The litter of a farmyard 
gathered under the windows of his bedcham- 
ber, and the cabbages and gooseberry bushes 
grew close to his hall door. His table was 
loaded with coarse plenty; and guests were 
cordially welcomed to it. But, as the habit 
of drinking to excess was general in the class 
to which he belonged, and as his fortune did 
not enable him to intoxicate large assemblies 
daily with claret or canary, strong beer was 
the ordinary beverage. The quantity of beer 
consumed in those days was indeed enormous. 
For beer then was to the middle and lower 
classes, not only all that beer now is, but aU 
that wine, tea, and ardent spirits now are. 
It was only at great houses, or on great 
occasions, that foreign drink was placed 
on the board. The ladies of the house, 
whose business it had commonly been to 
cook the repast, retired as soon as the 
dishes had been devoured, and left the 
gentlemen to their ale and tobacco. The 
coarse jollity of the afternoon was often 
prolonged till the revellers were laid under 
the table. 

It was very seldom that the country gentle- 
man caught glimpses of the great world ; and 
what he saw of it tended rather to confuse than 
to enlighten his understanding. His opinions 
respecting religion, government, foreign coim- 
tries and former times, having been derived, 
not from study, from observation, or from con- 
versation with enlightened companions, but 
from such traditions as were current in his 
own small circle, were the opinions of a child. 
He adhered to them, however, with the obsti- 
nacy which is generally found in ignorant men 
accustomed to be fed with flattery. His ani- 
mosities were numerous and bitter. He hated 
Frenchmen and Italians, Scotchmen and Irish- 
men, Papists and Presbyterians, Independents 
and Baptists, Quakers and Jews. Towards 
London and Londoners he felt an aversion 
which more than once produced important 
political effects. His wife and daughter were 
in tastes and acquirements below a house- 
keeper or a still-room maid of the present day. 
They stitched and spun, brewed gooseberry 



THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 



513 



wine, cured marigolds/ and made the crust for 
the venison pasty. 

From this description it might be supposed 
that the Enghsh esquire of the seventeenth 
century did not materially differ from a rustic 
miller or alehouse keeper of our time. There 
are, however, some important parts of his 
character still to be noted, which will greatly 
modify this estimate. Unlettered as he was 
and unpolished, he was stiU in some most 
important points a gentleman. He was a 
member of a proud and powerful aristocracy, 
and was distinguished by many both of the 
good and of the bad qualities which belong 
to aristocrats. His family pride was beyond 
that of a Talbot or a Howard. ^ f He knew the 
genealogies and coats of arms of all his neigh- 
bours, and could tell which of them had 
assumed supporters ^ without any right, and 
which of them were so unfortunate as to be 
great-grandsons of aldermen. He was a 
magistrate, and, as such, administered gratu- 
itously to those who dwelt around him a rude 
patriarchal justice, which, in spite of innu- 
merable blunders and of occasional acts of 
tyranny, was yet better than no justice at all. 
He was an officer of the trainbands ; and his 
military dignity, though it might move the 
mirth of gallants who had served a campaign 
in Flanders, raised his character in his own 
eyes and in the eyes of his neighbours. Nor 
indeed was his soldiership justly a subject of 
derision. In every county there were elderly 
gentlemen who had seen service which was 
no child's play. One had been knighted by 
Charles the First, after the battle of Edge- 
hiU. Another still wore a patch over the 
scar which he had received at Naseby. A 
third had defended his old house till Fair- 
fax had blown in the door with a petard. 
The presence of these old Cavahers, with 
their old swords and holsters, and with their 
old stories about Goring and Lunsford,^ gave 
to the musters of militia an earnest and war- 
like aspect which would otherwise have been 
wanting. Even those country gentlemen 
who were too young to have themselves ex- 

^ used for making conserves, for flavoring 
soups, and for coloring cheese " two of the most 
distinguished families of the nobility ^ a term in 
heraldry for figures supporting an escutcheon, cf. 
the lion and the unicorn that support the shield 
of Great Britain * noted persons of the Parlia- 
mentary War 



changed blows with the cuirassiers of the Par- 
liament had, from childhood, been surrounded 
by the traces of recent war, and fed with 
stories of the martial exploits of their fathers 
and uncles. Thus the character of the Eng- 
lish esquire of the seventeenth century was 
compounded of two elements which we sel- 
dom or never find united. His ignorance 
and uncouthness, his low tastes and gross 
phrases, would, in our time, be considered 
as indicating a nature and a breeding thor- 
oughly plebeian. Yet he was essentially a 
patrician, and had, in large measure, both 
the virtues and the vices which flourish among 
men set from their birth in high place, and 
used to respect themselves and to be respected 
by others. It is not easy for a generation 
accustomed to find chivalrous sentiments 
only in company with Hberal studies and 
polished manners to image to itself a man 
with the deportment, the vocabulary, and 
the accent of a carter, yet punctilious on mat- 
ters of genealogy and precedence, and ready 
to risk his life rather than see a stain cast 
on the honour of his house. It is, however, 
only by thus joining together things seldom 
or never found together in our own experi- 
ence that we can form a just idea of that 
rustic aristocracy which constituted the main 
strength of the armies of Charles the First, 
and which long supported, with strange 
fidelity, the interest of his descendants. 



Whoever examines the maps of London 
which were published toward the close of the 
reign of Charles the Second will see that only 
the nucleus of the present capital then existed. 
The town did not, as now, fade by imper- 
ceptible degrees into the country. No long 
avenues of villas, embowered in lilacs and 
laburnums, extended from the great centre 
of wealth and civilisation almost to the boun- 
daries of Middlesex and far into the heart of 
Kent and Surrey. In the east, no part of 
the immense line of warehouses and artificial 
lakes which now stretches from the Tower 
to Blackwall had even been projected. On 
the west, scarcely one of those stately piles 
of building which are inhabited by the noble 
and wealthy was in existence ; and Chelsea, 
which is now peopled by more than forty 
thousand human beings, was a quiet country 
village with about a thousand inhabitants. 
On the north, cattle fed, and sportsmen wan- 



514 



THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY 



dered with dogs and guns, over the site of 
the borough of Marylebone, and over far 
the greater part of the space now covered 
by the boroughs of Finsbury and of the 
Tower Hamlets. Ishngton was almost a 
solitude ; and poets loved to contrast its 
silence and repose with the din and turmoil 
of the monster London. On the south the 
capital is now connected with its suburb by 
several bridges, not inferior in magnificence 
and solidity to the noblest works of the 
Caesars. In 1685, a single line of irregvdar 
arches, overhung by piles of mean and crazy 
houses, and garnished, after a fashion worthy 
of the naked barbarians of Dahomy, with 
scores of mouldering heads, impeded the 
navigation of the river. 

Of the metropolis, the City, properly so 
called, was the most important division. At 
the time of the Restoration it had been buUt, 
for the most part, of wood and plaster ; the 
few bricks that were used were ill baked ; the 
booths where goods were exposed to sale pro- 
jected far into the streets, and were overhung 
by the upper stories. A few specimens of 
this architecture may still be seen in those 
districts which were not reached by the great 
fire. That fire had, in a few days, covered 
a space of less than a square mile with the 
ruins of eighty-nine churches and of thirteen 
thousand houses. But the City had risen 
again with a celerity which had excited the 
admiration of neighbouring countries. Un- 
fortunately, the old lines of the streets had 
been to a great extent preserved ; and those 
lines, originally traced in an age when even 
princesses performed their journeys on horse- 
back, were often too narrow to allow wheeled 
carriages to pass each other with ease, and 
were therefore ill adapted for the residence 
of wealthy persons in an age when a coach 
and six was a fashionable luxury. The style 
of building was, however, far superior to 
that of the City which had perished. The 
ordinary material was brick, of much better 
quahty than had formerly been used. On 
the sites of the ancient parish churches had 
arisen a multitude of new domes, towers, and 
spires which bore the mark of the fertile 
genius of Wren. In every place save one 
the traces of the great devastation had been 
completely effaced. But the crowds of 
workmen, the scaffolds, and the masses of 
hewn stone were still to be seen where the 
noblest of Protestant temples was slowly 



rising on the ruins of the old Cathedral of 
Saint Paul. 



He who then rambled to what is now the 
gayest and most crowded part of Regent 
Street found himself in a solitude, and was 
sometimes so fortunate as to have a shot at 
a woodcock. On the north the Oxford road 
ran between hedges. Three or four hundred 
yards to the south were the garden walls of a 
few great houses which Vv'ere considered as 
quite out of town. On the west was a meadow 
renowned for a spring from which, long after- 
wards, Conduit Street v/as named. On the 
east was a field not to be passed without a 
shudder by any Londoner of that age. There, 
as in a place far from the haunts of men, had 
been dug, twenty years before, when the 
great plague was raging, a pit into which 
the dead carts had nightly shot corpses by 
scores. It was popularly believed that the 
earth was deeply tainted with infection, and 
could not be disturbed without imminent 
risk to human life. No foundations were 
laid there till two generations had passed 
without any return of the pestilence, and till 
the ghastly spot had long been surrounded 
by buildings. 

We should greatly err if we were to suppose 
that any of the streets and squares then bore 
the same aspect as at present. The great 
majority of the houses, indeed, have, since 
that time, been wholly, or in great part, 
rebuilt. If the most fashionable parts of the 
capital could be placed before us such as 
they then were, we should be disgusted b}^ 
their squalid appearance, and poisoned by 
their noisome atmosphere. 

In Covent Garden a filthy and noisy 
market was held close to the dwellings of 
the great. Fruit women screamed, carters 
fought, cabbage stalks and rotten apples 
accumulated in heaps at the thresholds of 
the Countess of Berkshire and of the Bishop 
of Durham. 

The centre of Lincohi's Inn Fields was an 
open space where the rabble congregated 
every evening, within a few yards of Cardigan 
House and Winchester House, to hear mounte- 
banks harangue, to see bears dance, and to 
set dogs at oxen. Rubbish was shot in every 
part of the area. Horses were exercised there. 
The beggars were as noisy and importunate as 
in the worst governed cities of the Continent. 



THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 



515 



A Lincoln's Inn mumper ^ was a proverb. 
The whole fraternity knew the arms and 
Hveries of every charitably disposed grandee 
in the neighbourhood, and, as soon as his 
lordship's coach and six appeared, came hop- 
ping and crawling in crowds to persecute 
him. These disorders lasted, in spite of 
many accidents, and of some legal proceed- 
ings, till, in the reign of George the Second, 
Sir Joseph JekyU, Master of the RoUs, was 
knocked down and nearly killed in the middle 
of the square. Then at length palisades were 
set up, and a pleasant garden laid out. 

Saint James's Square was a receptacle for 
all the offal and cinders, for all the dead cats 
and dead dogs of Westminster. At one 
time a cudgel player kept the ring there. 
At another time an impudent squatter settled 
himself there, and built a shed for rubbish 
imder the windows of the gilded saloons in 
which the first magnates of the realm, Nor- 
folk, Onnond, Kent, and Pembroke, gave 
banquets and balls. It was not tili these 
nuisances had lasted through a whole genera- 
tion, and tUl much had been written about 
them, that the inhabitants applied to Parlia- 
ment for permission to put up rails, and to 
plant trees. 

When such was the state of the region in- 
habited by the most luxurious portion of soci- 
ety, we may easily beheve that the great body 
of the popiilation suffered what would now be 
considered as insupportable grievances. The 
pavement was detestable,: all foreigners cried 
shame upon it. The dramage was so bad 
that in rainy weather the gutters soon becam.e 
torrents. Several facetious poets have com- 
memorated the fury with which these black 
rivulets roared down Snow Hill and Ludgate 
liiU, bearing to Fleet Ditch a vast tribute of 
animal and vegetable filth from the stalls of 
butchers and green-grocers. This flood was 
yirofusely thrown to right and left by coaches 
and carts. To keep as far from the carriage 
road as possible was therefore the wish of 
every pedestrian. The mUd and timid gave 
the wall. The bold and athletic took it. 
If two roisterers met, they cocked their hats 
in each other's faces, and pushed each other 
about till the weaker was shoved towards 
the kennel. If he was a mere bully 
he sneaked ofif, muttering that he should 
=£nd a time. If he was pugnacious, the 

^ beggar 



encounter probably ended in a duel behind 
Montague House. 

The houses were not numbered. There 
would indeed have been little advantage in 
numbering them ; for of the coachmen, chair- 
men, porters, and errand boys of London, a 
very small proportion could read. It was 
necessary to use marks which the most igno- 
rant could understand. The shops were 
therefore distinguished by painted or sculp- 
tured signs, which gave a gay and grotesque 
aspect to the streets. The walk from Char- 
ing Cross to Whitechapel lay through an 
endless succession of Saracens' Heads, Royal 
Oaks, Blue Bears, and Golden Lambs, which 
disappeared when they were no longer re- 
quired for the direction of the common 
people. 



We may easily imagine what, in such times, 
must have been the state of the quarters of 
London which were peopled by the outcasts 
of society. Among those quarters one had 
attained a scandalous preeminence. On the 
confines of the City and the Temple had 
been fomided, in the thirteenth century, a 
House of Carmelite Friars, distinguished by 
their white hoods. The precinct of this 
house had, before the Reformation, been a 
sanctuary for criminals, and still retained 
the privilege of protecting debtors from 
arrest. Insolvents consequently were to 
be found in every dwelling, from cellar to 
garret. Of these a large proportion were 
knaves and hbertines, and were followed 
to their asylum by women more abandoned 
than themselves. The civil power was un- 
able to keep order in a district swarming 
with such inhabitants.; and thus White- 
friars became the favourite resort of all who 
wished to be emaacipated from the restraints 
of the law. Though the immunities legally 
belonging to the place extended only to 
cases of debt, cheats, false witnesses, forgers, 
and highwaymen found refuge there. For 
amidst a rabble so desperate no peace officer's 
life was ha safety. At the cry of "Rescue," 
bullies with swords and cudgels, and ter- 
magant hags with spits and broomsticks, 
poured forth by hundreds ; and the intruder 
was fortunate if he escaped back into Fleet 
Street, hustled, stripped, and pumped upon. 
Even the warrant of the Chief-justice of 
England could not be executed without the 



5i6 



THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY 



help of a company of musketeers. Such 
rehcs of the barbarism of the darkest ages 
were to be fovmd within a short walk of the 
chambers^ where Somers^ was studying his- 
tory and law, of the chapel ^ where TiUotson 
was preaching, of the coffee-house* where 
Dryden was passing judgment on poems 
and plays, and of the hall where the Royal 
Society was examining the astronomical 
system of Isaac Newton. 



The coffee-house must not be dismissed 
with a cursory mention. It might, indeed, 
at that time have been not improperly caUed 
a most important political institution. No 
Parhament had sat for years. The muiiic- 
ipal coimcLl of the city had ceased to speak 
the sense of the citizens. Pubhc meetings, 
harangues, resolutions, and the rest of the 
modern machinery of agitation had not yet 
come into fashion. Nothing resembling the 
modern newspaper existed. In such cir- 
cumstances the coffee-houses were the 
chief organs through which the pubhc opinion 
of the metropolis vented itself. 

The first of these establishments had been 
set up, in the time of the Commonwealth, 
by a Turkey merchant, who had acquired 
among the Mahometans a taste for their 
favourite beverage. The convenience of 
being able to make appointments in any part 
of the tow^n, and of being able to pass even- 
ings socially at a very small charge, was so 
great that the fashion spread fast. Every 
man of the upper or middle class went daily 
to his coffee-house to learn the news and to 
discuss it. Every cofiee-house had one or 
more orators to whose eloquence the crowd 
listened with admiratjon, and who soon be- 
came, what the journalists of our time have 
been caUed, a fourth Estate of the realm. 
The court had long seen with uneasiness the 
growth of this new power in the state. An 
attempt had been made, during Danby's 
administration,^ to close the coffee-houses. 
But men of all parties missed their usual 
places of resort so much that there was a 

^ in the Middle Temple ^ Lord Somers, made 
lord chancellor in 1697 ^ Lincoln's Inn chapel, 
where Tillotson preached until he became Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury in 1691 * Will's coffee- 
house, cf. below, p. 517 ^ Danby was lord treas- 
urer, 1673-8 



universal outcry. The government did not 
venture, in opposition to a feeling so strong 
and general, to enforce a regulation of which 
the legality might weU be questioned. Since 
that time ten years had elapsed, and during 
those years the number and influence of the 
coffee-houses had been constantly increasing. 
Foreigners remarked that the coffee-house 
was that which especially distingiushed 
London from all other cities ; that the coffee- 
house was the Londoner's home, and that 
those who wished to find a gentleman com- 
monly asked, not whether he hved in Fleet 
Street or Chancery Lane, but whether he 
frequented the Grecian or the Rainbow. No- 
body was excluded from these places who 
laid down his penny at the bar. Yet every 
rank and profession, and every shade of 
reUgious and pohtical opinion, had its own 
headquarters. There were houses near Saint 
James's Park where fops congregated, their 
heads and shoulders covered with black or 
flaxen wigs, not less ample than those which 
are now worn by the ChanceUor and by the 
Speaker of the House of Commons. The 
wig came from Paris; and so did the rest 
of the fine gentleman's ornaments, his em- 
broidered coat, his fringed gloves, and the 
tassels which upheld his pantaloons. The 
conversation was in that dialect which, long 
after it had ceased to be spoken in fashion- 
able circles, contmued, in the mouth of Lord 
Foppington,^ to excite the mirth of theatres. 
The atmosphere was like that of a perfumer's 
shop. Tobacco in any other form than that 
of richly scented sniiff was held in abomina- 
tion. If any clown, ignorant of the usages 
of the house, called for a pipe, the sneers of 
the whole assembly and the short answers of 
the waiters soon convinced him that he had 
better go somewhere else. Nor, indeed, 
would he have had far to go. For, in gen- 
eral, the coffee-rooms reeked with tobacco 
Uke a guard-room ; and strangers sometimes 
expressed their surprise that so many people 
should leave their own firesides to sit in 
the midst of eternal fog and stench. No- 
where was the smoking more constant than 
at Wni's. That celebrated house, situated 
between Covent Garden and Bow Street, 

^ a popular personification of foppery, in Van- 
brugh's comedy The Relapse (1697), Gibber's The 
Careless Husbaiui (1704), and Sheridan's A Trip 
to Scarborough (1777) 



THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND 



517 



was sacred to polite letters. There the talk 
was about poetical justice and the unities 
of place and time. There was a faction for 
Perrault and the moderns, a faction for 
BoHeau and the ancients. One group de- 
bated whether Paradise Lost ought not to 
have been m rhyme. To another an envious 
poetaster demonstrated that Venice Preserved^ 
ought to have been hooted from the stage. 
Under no roof was a greater variety of figures 
to be seen. There were earls in stars and 
garters, clergymen in cassocks and bands, 
pert Templars, sheepish lads from the Uni- 
versities, translators and index-makers in 
ragged coats of frieze. The great press 
was to get near the chair where John Dryden 
sat. In winter that chair was always in 
the -warmest nook by the fire; in summer it 
stood in the balcony. To bow to the 
Laureate, and to hear his opinion of Racine's 
last tragedy or of Bossu's treatise on epic 
poetry, was thought a privilege. A pinch 
from his snuSbox was an honour sufficient 
to turn the head of a young enthusiast. 
There were coffee-houses where the first 
medical men might be consulted. Dr. John 
Radcliffe, who, m the year 1685, rose to the 
largest practice in London, came daily, at 
the hour when the Exchange was full, from 
his house in Bow Street, then a fashionable 
part of the capital, to Garraway's, and was 
to be found, surrounded by surgeons and 
apothecaries, at a particular table. There 
were Puritan coffee-houses where no oath was 
heard, and where lank-haired men discussed 
election and reprobation through their noses; 
Jew coffee-houses where dark-eyed money 
changers from Venice and from Amsterdam 
greeted each other ; and popish coffee-houses 
where, as good Protestants believed, Jesuits 
planned, over their cups, another great fire, 
and cast silver bullets to shoot the King. 

These gregarious habits had no small share 
in forming the character of the Londoner of 
that age. He was, indeed, a different being 
from the rustic Englishman. There was not 
then the intercourse which now exists be- 
tween the two classes. Only very great men 
were in the habit of dividing the year be- 
tween town and countr)^ Few esquires 
came to the capital thrice in their lives. Nor 
was it yet the practice of all citizens in easy 
circumstances to breathe the fresh air of 



the fields and woods during some weeks of 
every summer. A, cockney in a rural village 
was stared at as much as if he had intruded 
into a kraal of Hottentots. On the other 
hand, when the lord of a Lincolnshire or 
Shropshire manor appeared in Fleet Street, 
he was as easily distinguished from the resi- 
dent population as a Turk or a Lascar. His 
dress, his gait, his accent, the manner in 
which he gazed at the shops, stumbled into 
the gutters, ran against the porters, and 
stood under the waterspouts, marked him 
out as an excellent subject for the opera- 
tions of swindlers and banterers. Bullies 
jostled him into the kennel. Hackney 
coachmen splashed him from head to foot. 
Thieves explored with perfect security the 
huge pockets of his horseman's coat, while 
he stood entranced by the splendour of the 
Lord Mayor's show. Money droppers, sore 
from the cart's tail, introduced themselves 
to him, and appeared to him the most honest 
friendly gentlemen that he had ever seen. 
Painted women, the refuse of Lewkner Lane 
and Whetstone Park, passed themselves on 
hrm for countesses and maids of honour. 
If he asked his way to Saint James's, his 
informants sent him to Mile End. If he 
went into a shop, he was instantly discerned 
to be a fit purchaser of everything that no- 
body else would buy, of second-hand em- 
broidery, copper rings, and watches that 
would not go. If he rambled into any 
fashionable coffee-house, he became a mark 
for the insolent derision of fops and the grave 
waggery of Templars. Enraged and morti- 
fied, he soon returned to his mansion, and 
there, in the homage of his tenants and the 
conversation of his boon companions, found 
consolation for the vexations and humilia- 
tions which he had undergone. There he 
was once more a great man, and saw nothing 
above himself except when at the assizes 
he took his seat on the bench near the judge, 
or when at the muster of the militia he saluted 
the Lord Lieutenant. 



a tragedy by Otway (1682) 



5i8 



JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 



JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL 

NEWMAN (i 801-1890) 

From THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 

DISCOURSE VI 

Knowledge viewed in Relation to 
Learning 



I suppose the primd-facie view which the 
pubhc at large would take of a University, 
considering it as a place of Education, is noth- 
ing more or less than a place for acquiring a 
great deal of knowledge on a great many sub- 
jects. Memory is one of the first developed 
of the mental faculties ; a boy's business when 
he goes to school is to learn, that is, to store 
up things in his memory. For some years 
his intellect is little more than an instrument 
for taking in facts, or a receptacle for storing 
them ; he welcomes them as fast as they come 
to him ; he lives on what is without ; he has 
his eyes ever about him ; he has a lively sus- 
ceptibility of impressions; he imbibes infor- 
mation of every kind ; and little does he 
make his own in a true sense of the word, liv- 
ing rather upon his neighbours all around 
him. He has opinions, rehgious, political, 
and literary, and, for a boy, is very positive 
in them and sure about them; but he gets 
them from his schooKellows, or his masters, 
or his parents, as the case may be. Such as 
he is in his other relations, such also is he 
in his school exercises ; his mind is observant, 
sharp, ready, retentive ; he is almost passive 
in the acquisition of knowledge. I say this 
in no disparagement of the idea of a clever 
boy. Geography, chronology, history, lan- 
guage, natural history, he heaps up the matter 
of these studies as treasures for a future day. 
It is the seven years of plenty with him : he 
gathers in by handfuls, like the Egyptians,^ 
without counting; and though, as time 
goes on, there is exercise for his argumenta- 
tive powers in the Elements of Mathematics, 
and for his taste in the Poets and Orators, 
slill, while at school, or at least, till quite 
the last years of his time, he acquires, and 
httle more; and when he is leaving for the 
University, he is mainly the creature of for- 

^ of. Genesis, xli : 49 



eign influences and circumstances, and made 
up of accidents, homogeneous or not, as 
the case m.ay be. Moreover, the moral 
habits, which are a boy's praise, encourage 
and assist this result ; that is, diligence, assi- 
duity, regularity, despatch, persevering appli- 
cation ; for these are the direct conditions of 
acquisition, and naturally lead to it. Ac- 
quirements, again, are emphatically pro- 
ducible, and at a moment ; they are a some- 
thing to show, both for master and scholar ; 
an audience, even though ignorant them- 
selves of the subjects of an examination, 
can comprehend when questions are answered 
and when they are not. Here again is a rea- 
son why mental culture is in the minds of men 
identified with the acquisition of knowledge. 

The same notion possesses the public mind, 
when it passes on from the thought of a school 
to that of a University : and with the best 
of reasons so far as this, that there is no true 
culture without acquirements, and that phi- 
losophy presupposes knowledge. It requires 
a great deal of reading, or a wide range of 
information, to warrant us in putting forth 
our opinions on any serious subject ; and 
without such learning the most original mind 
may be able indeed to dazzle, to amuse, to 
refute, to perplex, but not to come to any 
useful result or any trustworthy conclu- 
sion. There are indeed persons who profess 
a different view of the matter, and even act 
upon it. Every now and then you wiU find 
a person of vigorous or fertile mind, who 
relies upon his own resources, despises all 
former authors, and gives the world, with the 
utmost fearlessness, his views upon rehgion, 
or history, or any other popular subject. 
And his works may sell for a while ; he may 
get a name in his day ; but this will be all. 
His readers are sure to find on the long run 
that his doctrines are mere theories, and not 
the expression of facts, that they are chaff 
instead of bread, and then his popularity 
drops as suddenly as it rose. 

Knowledge then is the indispensable condi- 
tion of expansion of mind, and the instrument 
of attaining to it ; this cannot be denied, it is 
ever to be insisted on ; I begin with it as a 
first principle ; however, the very truth of it 
carries men too far, and confirms to them the 
notion that it is the whole of the matter. A 
narrow mind is thought to be that which con- 
tains little knowledge ; and an enlarged mind, 
that which holds a great deal; and what 



THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 



519 



' seems to put the matter beyond dispute is, 
the fact of the great number of studies which 
are pursued in a University, by its very pro- 
fession. Lectures are given on every kind of 
sul3Jcct ; examinations are held ; prizes 
awarded. There are moral, metaphysical, phys- 
ical Professors ; Professors of languages, of his- 
tory, of mathematics, of experimental science. 
Lists of questions are published, wonderful 
for their range and depth, variety and diffi- 
culty ; treatises are written, which carry 
upon their very face the evidence of exten- 
sive reading or multifarious information; 
what then is wanting for mental culture 
to a person of large reading and scientific 
attainments? what is grasp of mind but 
acquirement? where shall philosophical re- 
pose be found, but in the consciousness and 
enjoj^ment of large intellectual possessions? 

And yet this notion is, I conceive, a mis- 
take, and my present business is to show that 
it is one, and that the end of a Liberal Educa- 
tion is not mere knowledge, or knowledge con- 
sidered m its matter ; and I shall best attain 
my object, by actually setting down some 
cases, which will be generally granted to be 
instances of the process of enlightenment or 
enlargement of mind, and others which are 
not, and thus, by the comparison, you will be 
able to judge, for j^ourselves. Gentlemen, 
whether Knowledge, that is, acquirement, 
is after all the real principle of the enlarge- 
ment, or whether that principle is not rather 
somethmg beyond it. 



For instance, let a person, whose experi- 
ence has hitherto been confined to the more 
calm and unpretending scenery of these 
islands, whether here^ or in England, go for 
the first time into parts where physical 
nature puts on her AA'udcr and more awful 
forms, whether at home or abroad, as into 
mountainous districts ; or let one, who has 
ever lived in a quiet village, go for the first 
time to a great metropolis, — then I suppose 
he will have a sensation which perhaps he 
never had before. He has a feeling not in 
addition or increase of former feelings, but 
of something different in its nature. He 
will perhaps be borne forward, and find for 
a time that he has lost his bearings. He 

^ in Ireland 



has made a certain progress, and he has a 
consciousness of mental enlargement ; he 
does not stand where he did, he has a new 
centre, and a range of thoughts to which he 
was before a stranger. 

Again, the view of the heavens which the 
telescope opens upon us, if allowed to fill 
and possess the mind, may almost whirl it 
round and make it dizzy. It brings in a 
flood of ideas, and is rightly called an intel- 
lectual enlargement, whatever is meant by 
the term. 

And so again, the sight of beasts of prey 
and other foreign animals, their strangeness, 
the originality (if I may use the term) of their 
forms and gestures and habits and their va- 
riety and independence of each other, throw 
us out of ourselves into another creation, and 
as if imder another Creator, if I may so ex- 
press the temptation which may come on the 
mind. We seem to have new faculties, or a 
new exercise for our faculties, by this addition 
to our knowledge ; hke a prisoner, who, hav- 
ing been accustomed to wear manacles or 
fetters, suddenly finds' his arms and legs 
free. 

Hence Physical Science generally, in all its 
departments, as bringing before us the exu- 
berant riches and resources, yet the orderly 
course, of the Universe, elevates and excites 
the student, and at first, I may say, almost 
takes away his breath, while in time it exer- 
cises a tranquillising influence upon him. 

Again, the study of history is said to enlarge 
and enlighten the mind, and why? because, 
as I conceive, it gives it a power of judging of 
passing events, and of all events, and a con- 
scious superiority over them, which before 
it did not possess. 

Aid in like manner, what is called seeing 
the world, entering into active hfe, going into 
society, traveUing, gaining acquaintance with 
the various classes of the community, coming 
into contact with the principles and modes of 
thought of various parties, interests, and races, 
their views, aims, habits and manners, their 
religious creeds and forms of worship, — gain- 
ing experience how various yet how alike 
men are, how low-minded, how bad, how 
opposed, yet how confident in their opinions ; 
all this exerts a perceptible influence upon 
the mind, which it is impossible to mistake, 
be it good or be it bad, and is popularly called 
its enlargement. 

And then again, the first time the mind 



520 



JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 



comes across the arguments and speculations 
of unbelievers, and feels what a novel light 
they cast upon what he has hitherto accounted 
sacred ; and stiU more, if it gives in to them 
and embraces them, and throws off as so 
much prejudice what it has hitherto held, 
and, as if waking from a dream, begins to 
realise to its imagination that there is now no 
such thing as law and the transgression of 
law, that sin is a phantom, and punishment a 
bugbear, that it is free to sin, free to enjoy 
the world and the flesh ; and still further, 
when it does enjoy them, and reflects that it 
may think and hold just what it will, that 
"the world is all before it where to choose," ^ 
and what system to build up as its own private 
persuasion ; when this torrent of wilful 
thoughts rushes over and inundates it, who 
win deny that the fruit of the tree of knowl- 
edge, or Avhat the mind takes for knowledge, 
has made it one of the gods, with a sense of 
expansion and elevation, — an intoxication in 
reality, stiU, so far as the subjective state 
of the mind goes, an illumination? Hence 
the fanaticism of individuals or nations, who 
suddenly cast off their Maker. Their eyes 
are opened ; and, like the judgment-stricken 
king in the Tragedy,^ they see two suns, and 
a magic imiverse, out of which they look back 
upon their former state of faith and innocence 
with a sort of contempt and indignation, as 
if they were then but fools, and the dupes of 
imposture. 

On the other hand. Religion has its own 
enlargement, and an enlargement, not of tu- 
mult, but of peace. It is often remarked of 
uneducated persons, who have hitherto 
thought little of the unseen world, that, on 
their turning to God, looking into themselves, 
regulating their hearts, reforming their con- 
duct, and meditating on death and judgment, 
heaven and hell, they seem to become, in 
point of intellect, different beings from what 
they were. Before, they took things as they 
came, and thought no more of one thing than 
another. But now every event has a mean- 
ing ; they have their own estimate of what- 
ever happens to them ; they are mindful 
of times and seasons, and compare the present 

^ of. Par. Lost, XII, 646 ^ In the Baccha of 
Euripides (11. 918-9) Pentheus, King of Thebes, 
smitten with madness for defying the god Diony- 
sus, says: "Lo, I seem to see two suns and a 
double Thebes, the seven-gated city." 



with the past ; and the world, no longer dull, 
monotonous, improfitable, and hopeless, is a 
various and complicated drama, with parts 
and an object, and an awful moral. 



Now from these instances, to which many 
more might be added, it is plain, first, that 
the communication of knowledge certainly 
is either a condition or the means of that 
sense of enlargement or enlightenment, of 
which at this day we hear so much in certain 
quarters: this cannot be denied; but next, 
it is equally plain, that such communica- 
tion is not the whole of the process. The 
enlargement consists, not merely in the pas- 
sive reception into the mind of a number of 
ideas hitherto unknown to it, but in the 
mind's energetic and simultaneous action 
upon and towards and among those new ideas, 
which are rushing in upon it. It is the ac- 
tion of a formative power, reducing to order 
and meaning the matter of our acquirements ; 
it is a making the objects of our knowledge 
subjectively our own, or, to use a familiar 
word, it is a digestion of what we receive, 
into the substance of our previous state of 
thought ; and without this no enlargement 
is said to follow. There is no enlargement, 
unless there be a comparison of ideas one 
with another, as they come before the mind, 
and a systematising of them. We feel our 
minds to be growing and expanding then, 
when we not only learn, but refer what we 
learn to what we know already. It is not 
the mere addition to our knowledge that 
is the illumination ; but the locomotion, the 
movement onwards, of that mental centre, 
to which both what we know, and what we 
are learning, the accumulating mass of our 
acquirements, gravitates. And therefore a 
truly great intellect, and recognised to be such 
by the common opinion of mankmd, such as 
the intellect of Aristotle, or of St. Thomas, 
or of Newton , or of Goethe, (I purposely take 
instances within and without the Catholic 
pale, when I would speak of the intellect as 
such), is one which takes a connected view 
of old and new, past and present, far and near, 
and which has an insight into the influence 
of all these one on another ; without which 
there is no whole, and no centre. It possesses 
the knowledge, not only of things, but also 
of their mutual and true relations; knowl- 



THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 



521 



edge, not merely considered as acquirement, 
but as philosophy. 

Accordingly, when this analytical, distribu- 
tive, harmonising process is away, the mind 
experiences no enlargement, and is not reck- 
oned as enlightened or comprehensive, what- 
ever it may add to its knowledge. For in- 
stance, a great memory, as I have already 
said, does not make a philosopher, any more 
than a dictionary can be called a grammar. 
There are men who embrace in their minds 
a vast multitude of ideas, but with little 
sensibility about their real relations towards 
each other. These may be antiquarians, 
annalists, naturalists ; they may be learned 
in the law ; they may be versed in statistics ; 
they are most useful in their own place; I 
should shrink from speaking disrespectfully 
of them ; still, there is nothing in such attain- 
ments to guarantee the absence of narrowness 
of mind. If they are nothing more than well- 
read men, or men of information, they have 
not what specially deserves the name of 
culture of mind, or fulfils the type of Liberal 
Education. 

In like manner, we sometimes fall in with 
persons who have seen much of the world, 
and of the men who, in their day, have played 
a conspicuous part in it, but who generalise 
nothing, and have no observation, in the true 
sense of the word. They abound in informa- 
tion in detail, curious and entertaining, about 
men and things ; and, having lived under 
the influence of no very clear or settled prin- 
ciples, religious or political, they speak of 
every one and everything, only as so many 
phenomena, which are complete in themselves, 
and lead to nothing, not discussing them, 
or teaching any truth, or instructing the 
hearer, but simply talking. No one would 
say that these persons, well informed as they 
are, had attained to any great culture of 
intellect or to philosophy. 

The case is the same still more strikingly 
where the persons in question are beyond dis- 
pute men of inferior powers and deficient edu- 
cation. Perhaps they have been much in 
foreign countries, and they receive, in a pas- 
sive, otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts 
which are forced upon them there. Sea- 
faring men, for example, range from one end 
of the earth to the other ; but the multiplicity 
of external objects which they have encoun- 
tered forms no symmetrical and consistent 
picture upon their imagination; they see 



the tapestry of human life, as it were, on the 
wrong side, and.it tells no story. They sleep, 
and they rise up, and they find themselves, 
now in Europe, now in Asia ; they see visions 
of great cities and wild regions; they are 
in the marts of commerce, or amid the islands 
of the South ; they gaze on Pompey's Pillar,^ 
or on the Andes; and nothing which meets 
them carries them forward or backward, to 
any idea beyond itself. Nothing has a drift 
or relation ; nothing has a history or a 
promise. Everything stands by itself, and 
comes and goes in its turn, like the shifting 
scenes of a show, which leave the spectator 
where he was. Perhaps you are near such 
a man on a particular occasion, and expect him 
to be shocked or perplexed at something 
which occurs; but one thing is much the 
same to him as another, or, if he is perplexed, 
it is as not knowing what to say, whether 
it is right to admire, or to ridicule, or to disap- 
prove, while conscious that some expression 
of opinion is expected from him ; for in fact 
he has no standard of judgment at all, and 
no landmarks to guide him to a conclusion. 
Such is mere acquisition, and, I repeat, no 
one would dream of calling it philosophy. 



Instances, such as these, confirm, by the 
contrast, the conclusion I have already drawn 
from those which preceded them. That 
only is true enlargement of mind which is 
the power of viewing many things at once as 
one whole, of referring them severally to 
their true place in the universal sj^stem, of 
understanding their respective values, and 
determining their mutual dependence. Thus 
is that form of Universal Knowledge, of which 
I have on a former occasion spoken, set up 
in the individual intellect, and constitutes its 
perfection. Possessed of this real illumina- 
tion, the mind never views any part of the 
extended subject-matter of Knowledge with- 
out recollecting that it is but a part, or with- 
out the associations which spring from this 
recollection. It makes everything in some 
sort lead to everything else ; it would com- 
municate the image of the whole to every 
separate portion, till that whole becomes in 

^^a beautiful column in Alexandria, Egypt, 
falsely, connected with Pompey, really erected in 
honor of the Emperor Diocletian 



522 



JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 



imagination like a spirit, everywhere per- 
vading and penetrating its component parts, 
and giving them one definite meaning. Just 
as our bodily organs, when mentioned, recall 
their function in the body, as the word 
"creation" suggests the Creator, and "sub- 
jects" a sovereign, so, in the mind of the 
Philosopher, as we are abstractedly conceiving 
of him, the elements of the physical and 
moral world, sciences, arts, piirsuits, ranks, 
offices, events, opinions, individualities, are 
aU viewed as one, with correlative functions, 
and as gradually by successive combinations 
converging, one and all, to the true centre. 

To have even a portion of this illuminative 
reason and true philosophy is the highest 
state to which nature can aspire, in the way 
of intellect ; it puts the mind above the 
influence of chance and necessity, above 
anxiety, suspense, unsettlement, and super- 
stition, which is the lot of the many. Men, 
whose minds are possessed with some one 
object, take exaggerated views of its impor- 
tance, are feverish in the pursuit of it, make 
it the measure of things which are utterly 
foreign to it, and are startled and despond 
if it happens to fail them. They are ever 
in alarm or in transport. Those on the other 
hand who have no object or principle what- 
ever to hold by, lose their w^ay, every step 
they take. They are thrown out, and do not 
know what to think or say, at every fresh 
juncture ; they have no view of persons, or 
occurrences, or facts, which come suddenly 
upon them, and they hang upon the opinion 
of others, for want of internal resources. 
But the intellect, which has been disciplined 
to the perfection of its powers, which knows, 
and thinks while it knows, which has learned 
to leaven the dense mass of facts and events 
with the elastic force of reason, such an intel- 
lect cannot be partial, cannot be exclusive, 
cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, 
cannot but be patient, collected, and majesti- 
cally calm, because it discerns the end in every 
beginning, the origin in every end, the law 
in every interruption, the hmit in each delay; 
because it ever knows where it stands, and 
how its path lies from one point to another. 
It is the T€T/3ay wvos 1 of the Peripatetic, 

^ "four-square" — a term applied to the ideal 
man by Aristotle, founder of the Peripatetic 
school of philosophy (so called because he lec- 
tured in the shady walks of the Lyceum) 



and has the "nil admirari"^ of the 
Stoic, — 

Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, 
Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum 
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari. 2 

There are men who, when in difficulties, origi- 
nate at the moment vast ideas or dazzling 
projects; who, under. the influence of excite- 
ment, are able to cast a light, almost as if 
from inspiration, on a subject or course of 
action which comes before them; who have 
a sudden presence of mind equal to any emer- 
gency, rismg with the occasion, and an un- 
daunted magnanimous bearing, and an energy 
and keenness which is but made intense by 
opposition. This is genius, this is heroism; 
it is the exhibition of a natural gift, which 
no culture can teach, at which no Institution 
can aim ; here, on the contrary, we are con- 
cerned, not with mere nature, but with train- 
ing and teaching. That perfection of the 
Intellect, which is the result of Education, 
and its beau ideal, to be imparted to indi- 
viduals in their respective measures, is the 
clear, calm, accurate vision and comprehen- 
sion of all things, as far as the finite mind 
can embrace them, each in its place, and with 
its own characteristics upon it. It is almost 
prophetic from its knowledge of history; 
it is almost heart-searching from its knowledge 
of human nature ; it has almost supernatural 
charity from its freedom from littleness and 
prejudice; it has almost the repose of faith, 
because nothing can startle it ; it has al- 
most the beauty and harmony of heavenly 
contemplation, so intimate is it with the 
eternal order of things and the music of the 
spheres. 

^ The Stoic philosophy (so called because its 
founder Zeno taught in a porch) is phrased by 
Horace in "nil admirari," meaning "to be dazzled 
by nothing" or " to be without emotion." This, he 
says, is the only waj' to win happiness and retain 
it (Epist. I. 6. i). ^ Fortunate is he who is able 
to understand things in their real nature and can 
trample upon fears of all sorts and inexorable 
fate and the noise of greedy Acheron. 

Vergil, Georgics, II, 490-2. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



523 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 
(1809-1892) 

THE LADY OF SHALOTT 
PART I 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go. 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 9 

WUlows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four grey walls, and four grey towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers. 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 18 

By the margin, wiUow-veil'd, 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
The shaUop flitteth siLken-saU'd 

Skimming down to Camelot : 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand? 
Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott? 27 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 36 

PART II 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colours gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 
To look down to Camelot. 



She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadUy, 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 45 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot : 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surly village-churls. 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 54 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two ; 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 63 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot : 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed ; 
"I am half sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 72 

PART III 

A bovvT-shot from her bower-eaves. 
He rode between the barley-sheaves. 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves. 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight forever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yeUow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 81 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot : 
And from his blazon 'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armour rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 90 



524 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 99 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse strode ; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
"Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. • 108 



She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
The mirror crack 'd from side to side ; 
"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 



117 



PART IV 



In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complaining. 
Heavily the low sky raining. 
Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow she wrote 

. The Lady of Shalott. 126 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away. 

The Lady of Shalott. 135 

Lying, robed in snowy white. 

That loosely flew to left and right — 



The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The wiUowy hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 144 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side. 
Singing in her song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott. 153 

Under tower and balcony. 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by. 

Dead-pale between the houses high. 

Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came. 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 
And round the prow they read her name. 

The Lady of Shalott. 162 

Who is this? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 171 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade,^ 
"The Legend of Good Women," long ago 

Sung by the morning-star of song, who made 
His music heard below ; 4 

Dan ^ Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet 
breath 

Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 

With sounds that echo still. 8 

^ i.e., before I fell asleep ~ not a name but a 
title of respect, like the Spanish Don, from Latin 
dominus 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



525 



And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 
Held me above the subject, as strong gales 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my 
heart. 
Brimful of those wild tales, 12 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every 
land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth, 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 

The downward slope to death. 16 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and 
wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars ; 20 

And clattering flints batter 'd with clanging 
hoofs ; 

And I saw crowds in column 'd sanctuaries ; 
And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs 

Of marble palaces ; 24 

Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 
Dislodgmg pinnacle and parapet 

Upon the tortoise ^ creepmg to the wall ; 
Lances in ambush set ; 28 

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated 

blasts 

That run before the fluttering tongues of 

fire; 

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts. 

And ever climbing higher ; 3 2 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes. 

Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates. 
And hush'd seraglios. 36 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land 
Bluster the winds and tides the self-same 
way, 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 40 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain. 
Resolved on noble things, and strdve to 
speak. 

As when a great thought strikes along the brain. 
And flushes all the cheek. 44 

^ a close formation of troops protected by 
overlapping their shields above their heads 



And once my arm was lifted to hew down 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 

That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 
And then, I know not how,- 48 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did 
creep, 
RoU'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and 
brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 52 

At last methought that I had wander'd far 
In an old wood : fresh-wash'd m coolest 
dew 

The maiden splendours of the morning star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 56 

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and lean 
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with 
clearest green. 
New from its silken sheath. 60 

The dim red morn had died, her journey 
done. 
And with dead lips smiled at the twilight 
plain, 
Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 64 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air. 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 

Gross darkness of the inner sepiflchre 

Is not so deacfly still 68 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine 
turn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, 
And at the root thro' lush green grasses 
burn'd 
The red anemone. 72 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawa 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks 
drench'd in dew, 
Leading from la\\Ti to la^AOi. 76 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
Pour'd back into my empty soul and 
frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 80 



526 



ALFRED, LORD TENISTYSON 



And from within me a clear imdertone 

Tlirill'd thro' mine ears in that unbHssful 
cHme, 

"Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine own, 
Until the. end of time." 84 

At length I saw a lady ^ within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing 
there ; 

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall. 

And most divinely fair. 88 

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise 
Froze my swift speech : she, turning on my 
face 

The star-Uke sorrows of immortal eyes. 
Spoke slowly in her place. 92 

"I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er I 
came 
I brought calamity." 96 

"No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly died," 

I answer'd free ; and turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside.- 100 

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, 
To her full height her stately stature draws ; 

"My youth," she said, "was blasted with a 
curse : 
This woman was the cause. 104 

"I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 
Wliich men cail'd Aulis in those iron years : 

My father ^ held his hand upon his face ; 
I, blinded with my tears, 108 

"Still strove to speak: my voice was thick 
with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 
The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish 
eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 112 

"The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloa,t ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the 
shore ; 
The bright death qmver'd at the victim's 
throat ; 
Touch'd; and I knew no more." 116 

^ Helen of Troy ^ Iphigenia ^ Agamemnon 



Whereto the other with a downward brow : 
"I would the white cold heavy-plunging 
foam, 

Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below 
Then when I left my home." 120 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence 
drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "Come 
here, 
That I may look on thee." 124 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; ^ 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black 
eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 128 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : 
" I govern'd men by change, and so I sway'd 

All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 132 

"The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humour ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood : 136 
That makes my only woe. 

"Nay — -yet it chafes me that I could not bend 
One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine e3^e 

That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, 
friend. 
Where is Mark Antony ? 

"The man, my lover, with whom I rode sub- 
lime 

On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by God : 
The Nilus would have risen before his time 

And flooded at our nod. 144 

"We drank the Libyan Smi to sleep, and lit 
Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus.^ O my 
life 

In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the W'it, 
The flattery and the strife, 148 

"And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's 
alarms. 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms. 

Contented there to die ! 152 

^ Cleopatra ^ a star in the southern constella- 
tion Argo 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



527 



"And there he died: and when I heard my 

name 

Sigh'd forth with life, I would not brook ^ 

my fear 

Of the other : - with a worm I balk'd his fame. 

What else was left ? look here !" 156 

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, 
Showing the aspick's bite.) 160 

"I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 

A name forever ! — lying robed and crown'd, 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 164 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down and 
glance 

From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 168 

WTien she made pause I knew not for delight : 

Because with sudden motion from the 

ground 

She rais'd her piercing orbs, and fLU'd with 

light 

The interval of sound. 172 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest 
darts ; 

As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 

Of captains and of kings. 176 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
A noise of some one ^ coming thro' the la'W'ii, 

And singing clearer than the crested bird* 
That claps his wings at dawn. 180 

"The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, 

Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 184 

"The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
Floods aU the deep-blue gloom with beams 
divine : 

All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell 
With spires of silver shine." 188 

^ endure ^ Octavius, who conquered Antony 
^ Jephthah's daughter, cf . Judges, i.x * the 
lark 



As one that museth where broad sunshine laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 

Of sound on roof and floor 192 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, when that 
flow 

Of music left the lips of her that died 

To save her father's vow ; 196 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite ; 

A maiden pure ; as when she went along 
From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome 
light. 

With timbrel and with song. 200 

My words leapt forth: "Heaven heads the 
count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She render'd answer 
high : 
"Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 204 

"Single I grew, like some green plant, whose 
root 

Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath. 
Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit 

Changed, I was ripe for death. 208 

" My God, my land, my father — these did 
move 

Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love 

Down to a silent grave. 212 

"And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame among 

The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all joy, . 
Leaving the dance and song, 216 

"Leaving the olive-gardens far below. 
Leaving the promise of my bridal bower. 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 220 

"The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by one. 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 224. 

" Saw God divide the night with fl}dng flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of His. 228 



528 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



"When the next moon was rolFd into the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. 

How beautiful a thing it was to die 

For God and for my sire ! 232 

"It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, 

Sweetens the spirit still. 236 

"Moreover it is written that my race 
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glow'd as I look'd at her. 240 

She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood : 
"Glory to God," she sang, and passed afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 244 

Losing her carol I stood pensively, 

As one that from a casement leans his head. 

When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly. 
And the old year is dead. 248 

"Alas ! alas !" a low voice, full of care, 
Murmur'd beside me. "Turn and look on 
me : 

I am that Rosamond,^ whom men call fair, 
If what I was I be. 252 

"Would I had been some maiden coarse and 
poor ! 

O me, that I should ever see the light ! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 

Do hunt me, day and night." 256 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : 

To whom the Egyptian: "0, you tamely 

died! 

You should have clung to Fulvia's ^ waist, and 

thrust 

The dagger thro' her side." 260 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creep- 
ing beams, 

Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 

Ruled in the eastern sky. 264 

Morn broaden 'd on the borders of the dark. 
Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance 

^ loved by Henry II of England, whose queen 
was Eleanor of Aquitaine ^ Antony's wife 



Her murder 'd father's head,^ or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 268 

Or her 2 who knew that Love can vanquish 
Death, 

Who kneeling with one arm about her king. 
Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath. 

Sweet as new buds in Spring. 272 

No memory labours longer from the deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 276 

Each little sound and sight. With what dull 
pain 

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike 
Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! 

But no two dreams are like. 2S0 

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest. 
Desiring what is mingled with past years. 

In yearnings that can never be exprest 

By sighs or groans or tears ; 284 

Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, 

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 288 



MORTE D 'ARTHUR 

So all day long the noise of battle roU'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 
Had fallen in Lyonness ^ about their Lord, 
King Arthur : then, because his wound was 

deep. 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a' dark strait of barren land. 10 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 

^ Margaret, daughter of Sir Thomas More 
^ Eleanor of Castile, wife of Edward I of England 
^ supposed to lie between Cornwall and the Scilly 
Isles, now submerged, but cf. Layamon's Brut 



MORTE D 'ARTHUR 



529 



They sleep — the men I loved. I think that 

we 
Shall nevermore, at any future time, 
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 20 
Of Camelot,^ as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin ^ sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest 

how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 30 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it like a king: 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not : take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : ^ 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me 
word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 41 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and Ughtly bring thee 
word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, ^^^th flakes of foam. He, step- 
ping down 
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 50 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood. 
This way and that di\'iding the swift mind, 60 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted water-flags, 

^ King Arthur's capital - cf. Layamon's Brul, 
p. S, above ^ the middle of the lake 



That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 

So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 

"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I 

gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast 

heard?" 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 70 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and 

pale : 
"Thou hast betray 'd thy nature and thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had foUow'd, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shamefifl thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, 
As thou art lief ^ and dear, and do the thing 80 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me 

word." 
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud: 
"And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 90 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many 

men. 
What good should follow this, if this were 

done ? 
What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 99 
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honour and much fame were 

lost." 

1 beloved 



530 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



So spake he clouded with his own conceit/ 
And hid Excahbur the second time, 1 1 1 

And so strode back slow to the wounded 

King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast 

heard?" 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, much in 

wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 121 

Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou 

art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 131 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the 

sword, 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great 

brand 
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon. 
And flashing roxind and round, and whirFd in 

an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,^ 
Seen where the moving isles of winter ^ shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 141 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he^ dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 
Three times, and drew him mider in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 
Then spoke King Arthur, drawmg thicker 

breath : 
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or 

seen?" 

^ idea ^ Aurora Borealis ^ ice-bergs ^ Excalibur, 
of. 11. 145, etc. 



And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 151 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling 

him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

him 160 

Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing 

hard: 
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I w^ere 

gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 

weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; }'^et I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 
So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 170 

Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And woiild have spoken, but he found not 

words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 

hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 
But, as he waUc'd, Kmg Arthm- panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the 

King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, 

quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." iSo 

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to 

ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he 

walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His o^mx thought drove him, like a 

goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black chff clang'd round liim, as he 

based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 191 

And the long glories of the winter moon. 



MORTE D 'ARTHUR 



531 



Then saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them ; and descendmg they were 

ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by 

these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and 

from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 200 

Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 
Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the 

barge," 
And to the barge the}?^ came. There those 

three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and 

wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them aU 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed 

his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped v\dth dark blood : for all his face was 

white 212 

And colourless, and like the mther'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east ; 
And all. his greaves and cuisses dash'd with 

drops 
Oi onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
Pligh from the dais-throne — • were parch'd 

with dust ; 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightty growth that fringed 

his Hps. 220 

So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that 

led 232 



The holy Elders ^ with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And 1, the last, go forth companionless. 
And the days darken round me, and the 

years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 
And slowly answered Arthur from the 

barge : 
"The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new. 
And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 241 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have 

done 
May He within Himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again. 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought 

by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let 

thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them 

friend? 253 

For so the whole round earth is every way 
Boimd by gold chauas about the feet of God. 
But now fareweU. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all m}^ mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 260 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- 
lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with simimer sea, 
Wliere I will heal me of my grievous womid." 
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some fuU-breasted 

swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,^ 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the 

flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the huU 270 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of 

dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died awa5^ 

^ the Wise INIen of the East ^ The swan is 
fabled to sing just before dying. 



532 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



ULYSSES 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife,^ I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race. 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not 

me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I wUl drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and 

when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades^ lo 
Vext the dim sea ; I am become a name ; 
For always roammg with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known ; cities of men, 
And manners, climates, coimcils, governments, 
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all ; 
And drimk delight of battle with my peers. 
Far on the rmging plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of aU that I have met. 
Yet aU experience is an arch where-thro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin 
fades 20 

Forever and forever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A brmger of new things ; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 
And this grey spirit yearning in desire 30 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 
Beyond the utmost bo\md of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle ^ — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 
There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mar- 
iners, 

' Penelope, who for twenty years awaited his 
return from Troy ^ a cluster of stars in Taurus, 
supposed to presage rain ^ Ithaca 



Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and 

thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thmider and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are 

old ; 
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; 50 
Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done. 
Not unbecoming men that strove with 

Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : 

the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Conie, my 

friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows; for my purpose 

holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs wiU wash us down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,^ 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 
We are not now that strength which in old 

days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, 

we are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in 

will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 70 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 

'tis early morn : 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound 

upon the bugle-horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the 

curlews call. 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over 

Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks 

the sandy tracts. 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into 

cataracts. 

^ islands supposed by the ancients to lie west 
of Gibraltar and to be the abode of the blest 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



533 



Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere 

I went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to 

the West. 



Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they 
should do me wrong" ; 

Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weep- 
ing, "I have loved thee long." 30 



Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' Love took up the glass ^ of Time, and turn'd it 
the mellow shade, in his glowing hands ; 

Glitter like a swarm of fire-llies tangled in a Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in 
silver braid. 10 golden sands. 



Here about the beach I wander 'd, nourishing 

a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long 

result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful 

land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise 

that it closed : 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye 
could see ; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the won- 
der that would be. — 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the 

robin's breast ; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself 

another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the 

burnish 'd dove. 
In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly 

turns to thoughts of love. 20 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than 

should be for one so young, 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute 

observance hung. 

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and 

speak the truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being 

sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour 

and a hght, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the 

northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a 

sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of 

hazel eyes — 



Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on 

all the chords with might ; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, 

pass'd in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear 

the copses ring. 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the 

fullness of the Spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch 
the stately ships, 

And our spirits rush'd together at the touch- 
ing of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, 

mine no more! 

O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, 

barren shore! 40 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all 

songs have sung. 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a 

shrewish tongue! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having 

known me — • to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower 

heart than mine! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level 
day by day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sym- 
pathise with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated 

with a clown, 
And the grossness of his nature will have 

weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have 

spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer 

than his horse. 50 

^ hourglass 



534 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



What is this ? his eyes are heavy ; think not 

they are glazed with wine. 
Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his 

hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is 

overwrought ; 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him 

with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to 

understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew 

thee with my hand! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the 

heart's disgrace, 
RoU'd in one another's arms, and silent in a 

last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against 

the strength of youth! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from 

the living truth! 60 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest 

Nature's rule! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd 

forehead of the fool! 

Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — 
Hadst thou less unworthy proved — 

Would to God — for I had loved thee more 
than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which 

bears but bitter fruit? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart 

be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length 

of years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the 

clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the records 

of the mind? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as 

I knew her, kind? 70 

I remember one that perish'd : ^ sweetly did 
she speak and move : 
• Such a one do I remember, whom to look at 
• was to love. 



Can I think of her as dead, and love her for 

the love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly : love is love 

for evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is 
truth the poet sings, 

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remember- 
ing happier things.^ 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy 

heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain 

is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art 

staring at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, aiad the 

shadows rise and fall. 80 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing 

to his drunken sleep, 
To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears 

that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd 
by the phantom years, 

And a song from out the distance in the ring- 
ing of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient 

kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee 

to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a 

tender voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to dram thy 

trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me dowm : my latest rival 

brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from 

the mother's breast. 90 

O, the child too clothes the father with a dear- 

ness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy 

of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty 

part. 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down 

a daughter's heart. 



^i.e., one who is dead to him 



^ See Notes on Dream of Fair ]Vot}icn, 11. 73-6 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



535 



"They were dangerous guides the feelings — 
she herself was not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had suffer 'd" — Perish in 
thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! where- 
fore should I care ? 

I myself must mLx with action, lest I wither 
by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, hghting 

upon days like these ? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but 

to golden keys. loo 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the 

markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy ; what is that 

which I should do? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foe- 
man's ground, 

When the ranks are roU'd in vapour, and the 
winds are laid with sound. 



Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 

reaping something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of the 

things that they shall do : 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye 
could see, 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the won- 
der that would be; 120 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies 

of magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down 

with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 

rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the 

central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south- 
wind rushing warm. 

With the standards of the peoples plunging 
thro' the thunder-storm ; 



But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt 

that Honour feels. 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at 

each other's heels. 



Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the 

battle-flags were furl'd 
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of 

the world. 



Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that 
earlier page. 

Hide me from thy deep emotion, O thou won- 
drous JSIother-Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt 

before the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the 

tumult of my life ; no 

Yearning for .the large excitement that the 

coming years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves 

his father's field, 

And at night along the dusky highway near 

and nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like 

a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone 

before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among 

the throngs of men : 



There the common sense of most shall hold a 

fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in 

universal law. 130 

So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' 

me left me dr^'. 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me 

with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here 

are out of joint ; 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on 

from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creep- 
ing nigher, 

Glares at one that nods and winks behind a 
slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing 

purpose runs, 
And the thoughts of men are widcn'd with the 

process oi the suns. 



536 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



What is that to him that reaps not harvest of 

his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever 

like a boy's? 140 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I 

linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is 

more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he 

bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the 

stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding 
on the bugle-horn, 

They to whom my foolish passion were a tar- 
get for their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a 

moulder'd string? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved 

so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! 

woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded 

in a shallower brain : 150 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, 

match'd with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water 

unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. 

Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life 

began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle ^ fell my father 

evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish 

uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wan- 
der far away. 

On from island unto island at the gateways of 
the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons 

and happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 

knots of Paradise. 160 



Never comes the trader, never floats an Euro- 
pean flag, 

SUdes the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings 
the trailer from the crag ; 

Droops the heavy-blossom 'd bower, hangs the 

heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 

spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more 

than in this march of mind. 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the 

thoughts that shake m,ankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall 
have scope and breathing space ; 

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear 
my dusky race. 

Iron jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, 

and they shall run, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their 

lances in the sun ; 1 70 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the 
rainbows of the brooks. 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over miser- 
able books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know 

my words are wild. 
But I count the grey barbarian lower than the 

Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our 

glorious gains, 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast 

with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me 

were sun or clime? 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files 

of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish 

one by one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like 

Joshua's moon in Ajalon !^ 180 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, 

forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin forever down the 

ringing grooves of change. 



^ See above, p. 331, n. 3. 



^ Joshua, X : 12, 13. 



SIR GALAHAD 



537 



Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into 

the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 

Cathay.^ 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not), help me as 

when life begun : 
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, iiash the 

lightnings, weigh the Sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath 

not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my 

fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to 

Locksley HaU ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for 

me the roof-tree fall. 190 

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening 

over heath and holt. 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast 

a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, 

or fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, 

and I go. 

ST. AGNES' EVE 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon : 
j\Iy breath to heaven like vapour goes : 

]May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 6 

Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 12 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark. 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 18 

So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 

' China 



Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me. Thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 24 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strows her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within, 30 

For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with His bride ! 36 



SIR GALAHAD 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure. 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 

And when the tide of combat stands, 10 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favours fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 20 

More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
. A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns: 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice but none are there ; 30 

The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 



538 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



Fair gleams the sno'«^ altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill beU rings, the censer smngs, 

And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely rnountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 

I iioat tiU all is dark. 40 

A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 50 

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; 

But o'er the dark a glory spreads. 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 60 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams. 
Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odours haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armour that I wear, 70 

This weight and size, this heart and eyes. 

Are touch 'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky. 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 80 

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide. 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold grey stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoxights that arise in me. 4 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad. 
That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 8 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hiU ; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 1 2 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 16 

WAGES 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song. 

Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an 

endless sea — 

Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right 

the wrong — ■ 

Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of 

glory she : 4 

Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Yir- 
tue be dust. 
Would she have heart to endure for the life 
of the worm and the fly? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats 
of the just. 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a 
simimer sky : 9 

Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the 

hills and the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who 

reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He? tho' He be not that 

which He seems? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not 

live in dreams? 4 



MAUD 



539 



Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body 

and limb. 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division 

from Him? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the 

reason why ; 
For is He not aU but thou, that hast power 

to feel"! ami"? 8 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou ful- 

fiUest thy doom 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled 

splendour and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit 

with Spirit can meet — 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than 

hands and feet. 12 

God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us 

rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet 

His voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the 

fool; 
For aU we have power to see is a straight staff 

bent in a pool; 16 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye 

of man cannot see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — 

were it not He ? 

From MAUD 
XXII 

Come into the garden, ISIaud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; . 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 6 

For a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 12 

All night have the roses heard 
The flute, violin, bassoon ; 



All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 
To the dancers dancing in tune; 

Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 18 

I said to the lily, "There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 26 

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 

For one that will never be thine? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

"For ever and ever, mine." 32 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 
As the music clash'd in the hall ; 

And long by the garden lake I stood, 
For I heard your rivulet fall 

From the lake to the meadow and on to the 
wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all; 38 

From the meadow your walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 44 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

As the pimpernel ^ dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 52 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 58 

^ probably the scarlet pimpernel, a flower of the 
primrose family 



540 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near ;" 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late ;" 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear ;" 

And the lily whispers, "I wait." 66 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust wovild hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble.under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 74 

From IN MEMORIAM 
PROEM 

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 4 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute ; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 8 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
Thou madest man, he knows not why. 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 12 

Thou seemest human and divine. 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not how; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 16 

Our little systems have their day ; 
They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee. 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 20 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 24 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before, 28 



But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ; 

What seem'd my worth since I began ; 

For merit lives from man to man, 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 



32 



36 



40 



Forgive these wild and wandering cries. 

Confusions of a wasted youth ; 

Forgive them where they fail in truth, 
And in thy wisdom make me wise. 44 



I held it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones,^ 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 4 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 8 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd. 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss : 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss. 

To dance with death, to beat the ground, 1 2 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
"Behold the man that loved and lost. 

But aU he was is overworn." 16 

XXVII 

I envy not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage. 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods : 4 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes ; 8 

^ Tennyson said he meant Goethe. 



IN MEMORIAM 



541 



Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never pUghted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 12 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 16 



XXXI 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. 
And home to Mary's house return'd, 
Was this demanded — • if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 4 

"Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" 

There lives no record of reply, 

Which teUing what it is to die 
Had surely added praise to praise. 8 

From every house the neighbours met, 
The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 12 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 

He told it not ; or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 16 



XXXII 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits. 

And He that brought him back is there. 4 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 8 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down b}' gladness so complete. 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 12 

Thrice blest whose lives are faitliful prayers, 
\\Tiose loves in higher love endure ; 
\\Tiat souls possess themselves so piare, 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 16 



LIV 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 

Win be the final goal of ill, 

To pangs of nature, sins of will. 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 4 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 

That not one life shall be destroy'd. 

Or cast as rubbish to the void. 
When God hath made the pile complete ; 8 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 

That not a moth with vain desire 

Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 
Or but subserves another's gain. 12 

Behold, we know not anything ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 16 

So runs my dream ; but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night : 

An infant crying for the light : 
And with no language but a cry. 20 

LVII 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe 

Is after all an earthly song : 

Peace ; come away : we do him wrong 
To sing so wildly : let us go. 4 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale ; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Methinks my friend is richly shrined ; 

But I shall pass ; my work will fail. 8 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 12 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetings to the dead ; 

x\nd "Ave,^ Ave, Ave," said, 
"Adieu, adieu" for evermore. 

XCVI 



16 



You say, but with no touch of scorn. 

Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowTiing flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 4 

^ Ave (the Latin word of greeting) is dissyllabic. 



542 



ALFRED, LORD TENISTYSON 



I know not : one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed, 
Whio touch'd a jarring lyre at first. 

But ever strove to make it true : 8 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 12 

He fought his doubts and gather'd strength, 
He would not make his judgment blind. 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them : thus he came at length 16 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 

And Power was with him in the night, 
Which makes the darkness and the light, 

And dwells not in the light alone, 20 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 



24 



CVI 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty Hght : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 



16 



Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 20 



Ring out false pride in place and blood, 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right. 
Ring in the common love of good. 24 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 28 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land. 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. '32 

cxxx 

Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 

I hear thee where the waters run ; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 4 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 8 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 12 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 16 



From THE EPILOGUE 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down. 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapour sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town, 112 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and spread 

Their sleeping silver thro' the liills ; 116 

And touch with shade the bridal doors. 

With tender gloom the roof, the waU ; 

And breaking let the splendour fall 
To spangle all the happy shores 1 20 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 



543 



By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 124 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, 
Residt in man, be born and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 128 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge ; under whose command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand 

Is Nature like an open book ; 132 

No longer half-akin to brute. 

For all we thought and loved and did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit ; 136 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe. 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 140 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 

One God, one law, one element. 

And one far-off divine event. 
To which the whole creation moves. 144 



SIR JOHN FRANKLIN 

ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

Not here ! the white North has thy bones ; 
and thou. 

Heroic sailor-soid, 
Art passing on thine happier voyage now 

Toward no earthly pole. 4 



TO DANTE 

WRITTEN AT REQUEST OF THE FLOR- 
ENTINES 

King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, and 

grown 
In power, and ever growest ! since thine own 
Fair Florence honouring thy nativity. 
Thy Florence now the crown of Italy, 
Hath sought the tribute of a verse from me, 
I, wearing but the garland of a day, 6 

Cast at thy feet one flower that fades away. 



THE SILENT VOICES 

When the diunb Hour, clothed in black, 
Brings the Dreams about my bed. 
Call me not so often back. 
Silent Voices of the dead. 
Toward the lowland ways behind me. 
And the sunlight that is gone ! 
Call me rather, silent voices, 
Forward to the starry track 
GHmmering up the heights beyond me 
On, and always on ! ic 

MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 



O young Mariner, 

You from the haven 

Under the sea-cliff. 

You that are watching 

The gray Magician 

With eyes of wonder, 

/ am Merlin, 

And / am dying, 

/ am Merlin 

Who follow The Gleam. 10 

II 

Mighty the Wizard 

Who found me at sunrise 

Sleeping, and woke me 

And learn'd me Magic ! 

Great the Master, 

And sweet the Magic, 

When over the valley, 

In early summers, 

Over the mountain, 

On human faces, 20 

And all around me, 

Moving to melody, 

Floated The Gleam. 

ni 

Once at the croak of a Raven who crost it, 

A barbarous people, 

BHnd to the magic, 

And deaf to the melody, 

Snarl'd at and cursed me. 

A demon vext me. 

The light retreated, 30 

The landskip darken'd. 

The melody deaden 'd, 

The INIaster whisper'd 

"Follow The Gleam." 



544 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



IV 



Then to the melody, 

Over a wilderness 

Gliding, and glancing at 

Elf of the woodland, 

Gnome of the cavern, 

Griffin and Giant, 40 

And dancing of Fairies 

In desolate hollows, 

And wraiths of the mountain, 

And rolKng of dragons 

By warble of water, 

Or cataract music 

Of falling torrents, 

Flitted The Gleam. 



V 



Down from the mountain 

And over the level, 50 

And streaming and shining on 

Silent river, 

Silvery willow. 

Pasture and plowland. 

Horses and oxen, 

Innocent maidens, 

Garrulous children, 

Homestead and harvest, 

Reaper and gleaner, 

And rough-ruddy faces 60 

Of lowly labour, 

Slided The Gleam. — 



VI 



Then, with a melody 

Stronger and statelier. 

Led me at length 

To the city and palace 

Of Arthur the king ; 

Touch'd at the golden 

Cross of the churches, 

Flash'd on the Tournament, 70 

Flicker'd and bicker'd 

From helmet to helmet. 

And last on the forehead 

Of Arthur the blameless 

Rested The Gleam. 



Arthur had vanished 

I knew not whither. 

The king who loved me, 80 

And cannot die ; 

For out of the darkness 

Silent and slowly 

The Gleam, that had waned to a wintry 

glimmer . 

On icy fallow 
And faded forest, 
Drew to the valley 
Named of the shadow. 
And slowly brightening 
Out of the glimmer, 90 

And slowly moving again to a melody 
Yearningly tender. 
Fell on the shadow, 
No longer a shadow. 
But clothed with The Gleam. 

VIII 

And broader and brighter 

The Gleam flying onward. 

Wed to the melody. 

Sang thro' the world ; 

And slower and fainter, 100 

Old and weary, 

But eager to follow, 

I saw, whenever 

In passing it glanced upon 

Hamlet or city, 

That under the Crosses 

The dead man's garden, 

The mortal hillock, 

Would break into blossom ; 

And to the land's no 

Last limit I came — 

And can no longer. 

But die rejoicing. 

For thro' the Magic 

Of Him the Mighty, 

Who taught me in childhood, 

There on the border 

Of boundless Ocean, 

And all but in Heaven 

Hovers The Gleam. 120 



IX 



VII 

Clouds and darkness 
Closed upon Camelot ; 



Not of the sunlight, 
Not of the moonlight, 
Not of the starlight ! 
O young Mariner, 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



545 



Down to the haven, 
Call your companions, 
Launch 3^our vessel, 
And crowd your canvas, 
And, ere it vanishes 
Over the margin, 
x\fter it, follow it, 
Follow The Gleam. 



130 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 4 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless 
deep 

Turns again home. 8 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark ; 1 2 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and 
Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 16 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWN- 
ING (1806-1861) 

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 

I 

I thought once how Theocritus had sung 
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for 

years. 
Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : 
And. as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
I saw in gradual vision through my tears. 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years. 
Those of m}^ own life, who by turns had flung 
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 

'ware, 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move lo 



Behind me, and drew me backward by the 

hair; 
And a voice said in mastery while I strove, 
"Guess now who holds thee ?"—" Death ! " 

I said. But there. 
The silver answer rang: "Not Death, but 

Love." 

VII 

The face of all the world is changed, I think, 
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul 
Move still, oh, still, beside me ; as they stole 
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
Of obvious death, where I who thought to sink 
Was caught up into love and taught the whole 
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole ^ 
God gave for baptism, I am fain ^ to drink. 
And praise its sweetness. Sweet, with thee 

anear. 
The name of country, heaven, are changed 

away 
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here ; 
And this — this lute and song — loved yester- 
day, 1 2 
(The singing angels know) are only dear. 
Because thy name moves right in what they 
say. 

XIV 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say, 
" I love her for her smile — her look — her way 
Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day ; " — 
For these things in themselves. Beloved, may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and love so 

wrought. 
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry : 
A creature might forget to weep, who bore 11 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. 
But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou may'st love on through love's eternity. 

XVII 

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes 
God set between His After and Before. 
And strike up and strike off the general roar 
Of the rushing worlds a melodj^ that floats 

^ sorrow ^ glad 



546 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



In a serene air purely. Antidotes 
Of medicated music, answering for 
Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour 
From thence into their ears. God's will 

devotes 
Thine to such ends and mine to wait on thine ! 
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? 
A hope, to sing by gladly? — ^ or a fine 1 1 

Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? 
A shade, in which to sing — of palm or pine? 
A grave on which to rest from singing? — 

Choose. 

XX 

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago, 
What time I sate alone here in the snow 
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink 
No moment at thy voice, — but link by link 
Went counting all my chains as if that so 
They never could fall off at any blow 
Struck by thy possible hand, — why, thus I 

drink 
Of life's great cup of wonder. Wonderful, 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night lo 
With personal act or speech, — nor ever cull 
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms 

white 
Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are as dull, 
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight. 

XXI 

Say over again and yet once over again 
That thou dost love me. Though the word 

repeated 
Should seem "a cuckoo-song,"^ as thou dost 

treat it. 
Remember never to the hill or plain. 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green com- 
pleted! 
•Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
(By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's 

pain 
Cry, "Speak once more, thou lovest !" 'Who 

can fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall 

roll — lo 

Too many flowers, though each shall crown 

the year ? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me — 

toll 

^ a constant repetition of the same lew notes 



The silver iterance ! — only minding. Dear, 
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 

XXII 

When our two souls stand up erect and strong, 
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, 
Until the lengthening wings break into fire 
At either curved point, — What bitter wrong 
Can the earth do to us, that we should not 

long 
Be here contented ? Think. In mounting 

higher, 
The angels would press on us, and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Rather on earth. Beloved, — where the unfit, 
Contrarious moods of men recoil away ii 
And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
A place to stand and love in for a day. 
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it. 

XXVIII 

My letters all dead paper, mute and white ! 
And yet they seem alive and quivering 
Against my tremulous hands which loose the 

string 
And let them drop down on my knee to-night. 
This said, he wished to have me in his sight 
Once, as a friend ; this fixed a day in spring 
To come and touch my hand — a simple thing, 
Yet I wept for it ! — this — the paper's 

light — 
Said, "Dear, I love thee"; and I sank and 

quailed 
As if God's future thundered on my past : lo 
This said, "I am thine" — and so its ink has 

paled 
With lying at my heart that beat too fast : 
And this — O Love, thy words have ill 

availed. 
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last ! 

XLIII 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and 

height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of everyday's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 



547 



I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise ; 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with ray childhood's 

faith ; lo 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, — I love thee with the 

breath, 
SmUes, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God 

choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my 
brothers. 
Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
They are leaning their young heads against 
their mothers, 
And that cannot stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows : 
The young birds are chirping in the nest ; 
The yomig favv^ns are playing with the shadows; 
The young flowers are blowing toward 
the west — 
But the young, yovmg children, O my brothers, 
They are weeping bitterly ! lo 

They are weeping in the playtime of the 
others, 
In the comitry of the free. 

Do you question the young children in their 
sorrow. 

Why their tears are falling so ? 
The old man may weep for his to-morrow 

W' hich is lost in Long Ago ; 
The old tree is leafless in the forest, 

The old year is ending in the frost, 
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 

The old hope is hardest to be lost : 20 
But the young, young children, O my brothers. 

Do you ask them wh_v they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
mothers. 

In our happy Fatherland? 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their looks are sad to see, 
For the man's hoary anguish draws and 
presses 
Down the cheeks of infancy ; 
"Your old earth," they say, ''is very dreary. 
Our young feet," they say, "are very 
weak! 



Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — 31 

Our grave-rest is very far to seek : 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 
children. 
For the outside earth is cold, 
And we young ones stand without, in our 
bewildering. 
And the graves are for the old : 

"True," say the children, "it may happen 

That we die before our time : 
Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen 
Like a snowball, in the rime. 40 

We looked into the pit prepared to take her : 
Was no room for any work in the close 
clay! 
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will 
wake her 
Crying, ' Get up, little Alice ! it is day.' 
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, 
With your ear down, little Alice never 
cries ; 
Could we see her face, be sure v/e should not 
know her, 
For a smile has time for growing in her 
eyes : 
And merry go her moments, lidled and stilled 
in 
The shroud by the kirk-chime. 50 

It is good when it happens," say the children, 
"That we die before our time." 

Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking 

Death in life as best to have : 
They are binding up their hearts away from 
breaking, 
With a cerement from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and from 
the city, 
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes 
do ; 
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips 
pretty. 
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them 
through ! 60 

But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the 
meadows 
Like our weeds ancar the mine ? 
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadov.'s. 
From your pleasures fair and fine ! 

"For oh," say the children, "we are weary. 

And we cannot run or leap ; 
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 

To drop down in them and sleep. 



548 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, 

We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 70 
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping. 

The reddest flower would look as pale as 
snow. 
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring. 

Through the coal-dark, underground ; 
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 

In the factories, round and round. 

"For, all day, the wheels are droning, 
turnuig ; 
Their wind comes in our faces. 
Till our hearts turn, our heads, with pulses 
burning. 
And the walls turn in their places : 80 
Turns the sky in the high window, blank and 
reeling. 
Turns the long light that drops adown 
the wall. 
Turn the black flies that crawl along the 
ceiling : 
All are turning, all the day, and we with 
all. 
And all day the iron wheels are droning : 

And sometimes we could pray, 
'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moan- 
ing) 
' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' " 

Ay, be silent ! Let them hear each other 
breathing 
For a moment, mouth to mouth ! 90 
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh 
wreathing 
Of their tender human youth ! 
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 
Is not all the life God fashions or 
reveals : 
Let them prove their living souls against the 
notion 
That they live in you, or under you, O 
wheels ! 
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 
Grinding life down from its mark ; 
And the children's souls, which God is calling 
sunward, 
Spin on blindly in the dark. 100 

Now tell the poor yoimg children, O my 
brothers, 
To look up to Him and pray ; 
So the blessed One who blesseth all the 
others, 
Will bless them another day. 



They answer, "Who is God that He should 
hear us. 
While the rushing of the iron wheels is 
stirred ? 
When we sob aloud, the human creatures 
near us 
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a 
word. 
And we hear not (for the wheels in their 
resounding) 
Strangers speaking at the door : j: 10 
Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, 
Hears our weeping any more ? 

" Two words, indeed, of praying we remember ; 

And at midnight's hour of harm, 
'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, 

We say softly for a charm. 
We know no other words, except 'Our Father,' 
And we think that, in some pause of 
angels' song, 
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to 
gather, 
And hold both within His right hand 
which is strong. 120 

'Our Father!' If He heard us. He would 
surely 
(For they call Him good and mild) 
Answer, smihng down the steep world very 
purely, 
'Come and rest with me, my child.' 

"But no!" say the children, weeping faster, 

"He is speechless as a stone: 
And they tell us, of His image is the master 

Who commands us to work on. 
Go to !" say the children, — "Up in Heaven, 
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all 
we find : 130 

Do not mock us ; grief has made us mibeliev- 
ing: 
We look up for God, but tears have made 
us blind." 
Do you hear the children weeping and dis- 
proving, 
O my brothers, what ye preach? 
For God's possible is taught by His world's 
loving, 
And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you ! 

They are weary ere they run ; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the 
glory 

Which is brighter than the sun : 140 



ROBERT BROWNING 



549 



They know the grief of man, without its 
wisdom ; 
They sink in man's despair, without its 
calm ; 
And slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, 
Are martyrs, by the pang without the 
palm : 
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly 
The harvest of its memories cannot 
reap, — 
Are orphans of the earthly love and heav- 
enly. 
Let them weep ! let them weep ! 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their look is dread to see, 150 

For they mind you of their angels in high 
places. 
With eyes turned on Deity. 
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel 
nation. 
Will you stand, to move the world, on a 
child's heart, — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation. 
And tread onward to your throne amid 
the mart ? 
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper. 

And your purple shows your path ! 
But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper 
Than the strong man in his wrath." 160 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 

\^'Tiat was he doing, the great god Pan,^ 

Down in the reeds by the river ? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 

With the dragon-fly on the river ? 6 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river, 

The limpid water turbidly ran. 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 

And the dragon-fly had fled awa}'-. 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 1 2 

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 

WhUe turbidly flowed the river. 
And hacked and hewed as a great god can 

^ the goat-footed god, traditional inventor of 
the shepherd's flute 



With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed. 
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 18 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 
(How tall it stood in the river !), 

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 

Steadily from the outside ring. 

And notched the poor dry empty thing 

In holes as he sat by the river. 24 

"This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, 

(Laughed while he sat by the river) 
" The only way since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed." 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the 
reed. 
He blew in power by the river. 30 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan ! 

Piercing sweet by the river ! 
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 
The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

Came back to dream on the river. 36 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan 
To laugh, as he sits by the river. 

Making a poet out of a man : 

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain — 

For the reed which grows never more again 
As the reed with the reeds of the river. 42 

ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889) 

CAVALIER TUNES 

I. MARCHING ALONG 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 
Bidding the crop-headed ^ Parliament swing : 
And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 
And see the rogues flourish and honest folk 

droop, 
Marched them along, fifty-score strong, 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 6 

God for King Charles ! Pym ^ and such carles 
To the Devil that prompts 'em their treason- 
ous paries ! 

^ short-haired. Roundheads - P\ni, Hampden, 
Hazelrig, Fiennes, and Sir Harr}' Vane the 
younger were prominent Parliamentarians. 



550 



Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup, 

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 

Till you're — 

Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score 
strong, 
Great-hearted gentlemen, sing- 
ing this song. 12 

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell 
Serve ^ Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as 

well! 
England, good cheer ! Rupert - is near ! 
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, 
Cho. — Marching along, fifty-score strong. 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing 
this song? 1 8 

Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and his 

snarls 
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent 

carles ! 

Hold by the right, you double your might ; 

So, onward to Nottingham,^ fresh for the fight, 

Cho. — March we along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-iiearted gentlemen, singing 

this song ! 24 

n. GIVE A ROUSE 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now ? 
Give a rouse : here's, in hell's despite now, 
King Charles ! 4 

Who gave me the goods that went since ? 
Who raised me the house that sank once ? 
Who helped me to gold I spent since ? 
Who found me in wine you drank once ? 8 
Cho. — King Charles, and who'll do him 
right now ? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for 

fight now ? 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's 

despite now, 
King Charles ! 12 

To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
By the old fool's side that begot him ? 
For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 
WhUe Noll's * damned troopers shot him? 16 

' Let it serve ^Prince Rupert, nephew of King 
Charles and commander of his cavalry ^ where 
the King's troops assembled in 1642 ^ Oliver 
Cromwell 



ROBERT BROWNING 

Cho. 



King Charles, and who'll do him 

right now ? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for 

fight now ? 
Give a rouse : here's, in hell's 

despite now. 
King Charles ! 20 



"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 
NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX" 

(16-) 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all 
three ; 

"Good speed !" cried the watch, as the gate- 
bolts undrew ; 

"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping 
through ; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank 
to rest. 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 6 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great 

pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing 

om: place ; 
I turned m my saddle and made its girths 

tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the 

pique 1 right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker 

the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 12 

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we 

drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twihght dawned 

clear ; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At Diifleld, 'twas morning as plain as could 

be; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard 

the half-chime, 17 

So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is 

time ! " 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black every 

one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 

^ pommel 



EVELYN HOPE 



55^ 



With resolute shoulders, each butting away 23 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its 
spray : 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp 

ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on 

his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that 

glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, 

askance ! 
And the thick heav}'^ spume-flakes which aye 

and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 

"Stay spur ! 31 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not 

in her, 
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the 

quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and 

staggering knees. 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haimches she shuddered and 

sank. 36 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the 

sky ; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble 

like chaff; 
Till over by DaUiem a dome-spire sprang 

white, 
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in 

sight !" 42 

"How they'U greet us!" — and all in a 

moment his roan 
RoUed neck and croup over, lay dead as a 

stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole 

weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from 

her fate. 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the 

brim, 47 

And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster 

let fall. 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go l^elt and 

aU, 



Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse 

without peer ; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any 

noise, bad or good, 53 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and 

stood. 

And all I remember is — friends flocking 

round 
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the 

ground ; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of 

mine. 
As I poured down his throat our last measure 

of wine. 
Which (the burgesses voted by common 

consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good 

news from Ghent. 60 



SONG 

Nay but you, who do not love her, 
Is she not pure gold, my mistress? 

Holds earth aught — speak truth — above 
her? 
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, 

And this last fairest tress of all. 

So fair, see, ere I let it fall ? 6 

Because you spend your lives in praising ; 

To praise, you search the wide world over : 
Then why not witness, calmly gazing. 

If earth holds aught ^ — speak truth — 
above her? 
Above this tress, and this, I touch 
But cannot praise, I love so much ! 12 



EVELYN HOPE 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass ; 

Little has yet been changed, I think : 
The shutters are shut, no light ma)' pass 

Save two long rays through the hinge's 
chink. 8 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 



552 



ROBERT BROWNING 



It was not her time to love ; beside, 
Her life had many a hope and aim, 

Duties enough and little cares, 
And now was quiet, now astir. 

Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 
And the sweet white brow is aU of her. 



i6 



Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 
And, just because I was thrice as old 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow mortals, naught beside? 24 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love : 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few : 
Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 3.2 

But the time will come, — at last it will, 

When , Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long still. 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

Ajid your mouth of your own geranium's 
red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 42 

Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me : 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 48 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 

My heart seemed full as it could hold ; 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile. 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's 
young gold. 
So hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep : 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! 
There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! 55 

You will wake, and remember, and under- 
stand. 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there. 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware. 

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood 

sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
In England — now ! 

And after April, when May follows, 9 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the 

swallows ! 
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the 

hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's 



That's the wise thrush ; he sings each song 

twice over, 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture ! 
And though the fields look rough with hoary 

dew, 
All will be gay when noontide wakes anevv^ 
The buttercups, the little children's dower 19 
— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 

From SAUL 
XVII 

"I have gone the whole round of creation: 
I saw and I spoke ; 

I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, re- 
ceived in my brain 

And pronounced on the rest of his handwork 
— returned him again no 

His creation's approval or censure : I spoke 
as I saw : 

I report, as a man may of God's work — all's 
love, yet all's law. 

Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. 
Each faculty tasked 

To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where 
a dewdrop was asked. 

Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at 
Wisdom laid bare. 

Have I forethought? how purblind, how 
blank, to the Infinite Care ! 

Do I task any faculty highest, to image suc- 
cess? 

I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no 
more and no less, 



SAUL 



553 



In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and 

God is seen God 
In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the 

soul and the clod. 120 

And thus looking within and around me, I 

ever renew 
(With that stoop of the soul which in bending 

upraises it too) 
The submission of man's nothing-perfect to 

God's all-complete, 
As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to 

his feet. 
Yet with all this aboimding experience, this 

deity known, 
I shall dare to discover some province, some 

gift of my own. 
There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to 

hoodwink, 
I am fain to keep stiU in abeyance, (I laugh 

as I think) 
Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot 

ye, I worst 
E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could 

love if I durst ! 130 

But I sink the pretension as fearing a man 

may o'ertake 
God's own speed in the one way of love: I 

abstain for love's sake. 
— What, my soul? see thus far and no 

farther? when doors great and small, 
Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should 

the hundredth appall ? 
In the least things have faith, yet distrust in 

the greatest of all ? 
Do I find love so full in my nature, God's 

ultimate gift. 
That I doubt his own love can compete with 

it ? Here, the parts shift ? 
Here, the creature surpass the Creator, — 

the end, what Began? 
Would I fain in my impotent yearning do 

all for this man. 
And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, 

who yet alone can? 140 

Would it ever have entered my mind, the 

bare wQl, much less power. 
To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the 

marvellous dower 
Of the life he was gifted and fiUed with? to 

make such a soul. 
Such a body, and then such an earth for 

insphering the whole? 
And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm 

tears attest) 



These good things being given, to go on, and 
give one more, the best ? 

Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, main- 
tain at the height 

This perfection, — succeed with life's day- 
spring, death's minute of night? 

Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul 
the mistake, 

Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, — - 
and bid him awake 150 

From the dream, the probation, the prelude, 
to find himself set 

Clear and safe in new light and new life, — 
a new harmony yet 

To be run, and continued, and ended — who 
knows ? — or endure ! 

The man taught enough by life's dream, of 
the rest to make sure ; 

By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning in- 
tensified bliss. 

And the next world's reward and repose, by 
the struggles in this. 

XVIII 

''I believe it ! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis 

I who receive : 
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power 

to believe. 
All's one gift : thou canst grant it moreover, 

as prompt to my prayer 
As I breathe out this breath, as I open these 

arms to the air. 160 

From thy will stream the worlds, life and 

nature, thy dread Sabaoth : ^ 
/ will ? — ■ the mere atoms despise me ! \\Tiy 

am I not loth 
To look that, even that in the face too ? Why 

is it I dare 
Think but lightly of such impuissance? 

What stops my despair? 
This ; — 'tis not what man Does which exalts 

him, but what man Would do ! 
See the King — I would help him but cannot, 

the wishes fall through. 
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, 

grow poor to enrich. 
To fill up his life, starve my ow-n out, I would 

— knowing which, 
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak 

through me now ! 
Would I suffer for him that I love? So 

wouldst thou — so wilt thou ! 170 



554 



ROBERT BROWNING 



So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, 

uttermost crown — ■ 
And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave 

up nor down 
One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is 

by no breath, 
Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins 

issue with death ! 
As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty 

be proved 
Thy power, that exists with and for it, of 

being Beloved ! 
He who did most, shall bear most ; the strong- 
est shall stand the most weak. 
'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for ! 

my flesh, that I seek 
In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. Saul, 

it shall be 
A Face like my face that receives thee ; a 

Man like to me, i8o 

Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever : a 

Hand like this hand 
Shall throw open the gates of new life to 

thee ! See the Christ stand !" 

SONG 
MY STAR 

AU that I know 

Of a certain star 
Is, it can throw 

(Like the angled spar) 
Now a dart of red, 

Now a dart of blue; 
Till my friends have said 
They would fain see, too, 
My star that dartles the red and the blue ! 
Then it stops like a bird : like a flower, hangs 
furled: lo 

They must solace themselves with the 
Saturn above it. 
What matter to me if their star is a world ? 
Mine has opened its soul to me ; therefore 
I love it. 

MY LAST DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall. 

Looking as if she were alive. I call 

That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's 

hands 
Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 



Will't please you sit and look at her ? I said 
"Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read 
Strangers like you that pictured coimtenance, 
The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 
But to myself they turned (since none puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) lo 
And seemed as they would ask me, if they 

durst, 
How such a glance came there; so, not the 

first 
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 
Her husband's presence only, called that spot 
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps 
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps 
Over my lady's v/rist too much," or "Paint 
Must never hope to reproduce the faint 
Half -flush that dies along her throat:" such 

stuff 
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 
For calling up that spot of joy. She had 21 
A heart — how shall I say ? — too soon made 

glad. 
Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er 
She looked on, and her looks went every- 
where. 
Sir, 'twas all one ! My favour at her breast, 
The dropping of the daylight in the West, 
The bough of cherries some officious fool 
Broke in the' orchard for her, the white mule 
She rode with round the terrace — all and 

each 
Would draw from her alike the approving 

speech. 
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — 

good ! but thanked 3 1 

Somehow — ■ I know not how — as if she 

ranked 
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 
In speech — (which I have not) — to make 

your will 
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just 

this 
Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, 
Or there exceed the mark'' — and if she let 
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 
— E'en then would be some stooping ; and I 

choose 
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, 
Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed with- 
out 
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave 

commands ; 



A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 



555 



Then all smiles stopped together. There she 

stands 
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll 

meet 
The company below, then. I repeat, 
The Count your master's known munificence 
Is ample warrant that no just pretence 50 
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; 
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, 

though, 
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. 
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for 

me! 



A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF 
LEARNING IN EUROPE 

Let us begin and carry up this corpse, 

Singing together. 
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar 
thorpes 

Each in its tether 
Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, 

Cared-for till cock-crow : 
Look out if yonder be not day again 

Rimming the rock-row ! 
That's the appropriate country ; there, man's 
thought, 

Rarer, intenser, 10 

Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, 

Chafes in the censer. 
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and 
crop ; 

Seek we sepvilture 
On a tall mountain, citied to the top, 

Crowded with culture ! 
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels ; 

Clouds overcome it ; 
No ! yonder sparkle is the citadel's 

Circling its summit. 20 

Thither our path lies; wind we up the 
heights ; 

Wait ye the warning? 
Our low life was the level's and the night's ; 

He's for the morning. 
Step to a time, square chests, erect each 
head, 

'Ware the beholders ! 
This is our master, famous, calm and dead. 

Borne on our shoulders. 



Sleep, crop and herd ! sleep, darkling thorpe 
and croft. 

Safe from the weather ! 30 

He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, 

Singing together. 
He was a man born with thy face and throat, 

Lyric Apollo ! 
Long he lived nameless: how should Spring 
take note 

Winter would follow? 
TiU lo, the little touch, and youth was gone ! 

Cramped and diminished, 
Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! 

My dance is finished"? 40 

No, that's the world's way : (keep the moun- 
tain-side. 

Make for the city !) 
He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride 

Over men's pity ; 
Left play for work, and grappled with the 
world 

Bent on escaping : 
"What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou 
keepest furled? 

Show me their shaping, 
Theirs who most studied man, the bard and 
sage, — 

Give!" — So, he gowned him, 50 

Straight got by heart that book to its last 
page: 

Learned, we found him. 
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like 
lead. 

Accents uncertain : 
"Time to taste life," another would have 
said, 

"Up with the curtain !" 
This man said rather, "Actual life comes 
next ? 

Patience a moment ! 
Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text. 

Still there's the comment. 60 

Let me know all ! Prate not of most or least, 

Painful or easy ! 
Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, 

Ay, nor feel queasy." 
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, 

When he had learned it. 
When he had gathered all books had to give ! 

Sooner, he spurned it. 
Image the whole, then execute the parts — 

Fancy the fabric 70 

Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from 
quartz, 

Ere mortar dab brick ! 



5S6 



ROBERT BROWNING 



(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the 
market-place 

Gaping before us.) 
Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 

(Hearten our chorus !) 
That before hving he'd learn how to live — 

No end to learning : 
Earn the means first — God surely will con- 
trive 

Use for our earning. 80 

Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes: 

Live now or never !" 
He said, "What's time ? Leave Now for dogs 
and apes ! 

Man has Forever." 
Back to his book then: deeper drooped his 
head: 

Calculus ^ racked him : 
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: 

T us sis ^ attacked him. 
"Now, master, take a little rest !" — not he ! 

(Caution redoubled, 90 

Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly !) 

Not a whit troubled, 
Back to his studies, fresher than at first. 

Fierce as a dragon 
He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) ' 

Sucked at the flagon. 
Oh, if we draw a circle premature, 

Heedless of far gain, 
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure 

Bad is our bargain ! 100 

Was it not great ? did not he throw on God, 

(He loves the burthen) — 
God's task to make the h.eavenly period 

Perfect the earthen? 
Did not he magnify the mind, show clear 

Just what it all meant? 
He would not discount life, as fools do here, 

Paid by instalment. 
He ventured neck or nothing — heaven's 
success 

Found, or earth's failure: no 

"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He an- 
swered "Yes ! 

Hence with life's pale lure !" 
That low man seeks a little thing to do, 

Sees it and does it : 
This high man, with a great thing to pursue. 

Dies ere he knows it. 
That low man goes on adding one to one. 

His hundred's soon hit : 

^ the stone ^ a cough ' thirsty like one who 
has dropsy 



This high man, aiming at a million, 

Misses an unit. 120 

That, has the world here — should he need the 
next. 

Let the world mind him ! 
This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed 

Seeking shall find him. 
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife. 

Ground he at grammar ; 
Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were 
rife: 

While he could stammer 
He settled Hoti's business — let it be ! — 

Properly based Omw — 130 

Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De,^ 

Dead from the waist down. 
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper 
place ; 

Hail to your purlieus, 
All ye highfliers of the feathered race. 

Swallows and curlews ! 
Here's the top-peak ; the multitude below 

Live, for they can, there : 
This man decided not to Live but Know — 

Bury this man there? 140 

Here — here's his place, where meteors shoot, 
clouds form. 

Lightnings are loosened. 
Stars come and go ! Let joy break with the 
storm. 

Peace let the dew send ! 
Lofty designs must close in like effects : 

Loftily lying. 
Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects 

Living and dying. 

"CHILDE2 ROLAND TO THE DARK 
TOWER CAME" 

(See Edgar's song in Lear) 

My first thought was, he hed in every word. 
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye 
Askance to watch the working of his lie 
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford 
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored 
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. 

What else should he be set for, with his staff? 7 
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare 
All travellers who might find him posted 
there, 

^ minute but diiBcult problems of Greeii 
grammar ^ a young iinight 



"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME" 



557 



And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like 

laugh 
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my 

epitaph 
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, 1 2 

If at his counsel I should turn aside 

Into that ominous tract which, all agree, 
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly 
I did turn as he pointed : neither pride 
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, 1 7 
So much as gladness that some end might be. 

For, what with my whole world-wide wander- 
ing, 
What with my search drawn out through 

years, my hope 
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope 
With that obstreperous joy success would 

bring, — 
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring 

My heart made, finding failure in its scope. 

As when a sick man very near to death 25 
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end 
The tears, and takes the farewell of each 
friend, 
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath 
Freeher outside, (" since all is o'er," he saith, 
"And the blow fallen no grieving can 
amend;") 30 

While some discuss if near the other graves 
Be room enough for this, and when a day 
Suits best for carrying the corpse away, 
With care about the banners, scarves and 

staves : 
And still the man hears all, and only craves 35 
He may not shame such tender love and 
stay. 

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest. 
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ 
So many times among "The Band" — to 
wit, 
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search 
addressed 40 

Their steps — that just to fail as they, seemed 
best. 
And all the doubt was now — should I be 
fit? 

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him. 
That hateful cripple, out of his highway 
Into the path he pointed. All the day 45 



Had been a dreary one at best, and dim 
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim 
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. 

For mark ! no sooner was I fairly found 
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, 
Than, pausing to throw backward a last 
view 
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone ; gre}' plain all 

round : 
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. 
I might go on ; naught else remained to do. 



55 
nothing 



So, on I went. I think I never saw 
Such starved ignoble nature: 

throve : 

For flowers — as well expect a cedar grove ! 

But cockle, spurge, according to their law 

Might propagate their kind, with none to 

awe, _ 59 

You'd think: a burr had been a treasure 

trove. 

No ! penury, inertness and grimace. 

In some strange sort, were the land's por- 
tion. " See 
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, 
"It nothing skills : ^ I cannot help my case : 
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this 
place, 
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free." 

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk 6 7 
Above its mates, the head was chopped ; the 

bents ^ 
Were jealous else. What made those holes 
and rents 
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as 

to balk 
AU hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must 
walk 
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. 

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair 73 
In leprosy ; thin dry blades pricked the 

mud 
Which underneath looked kneaded up with 
blood. 
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare. 
Stood stupefied, however he came there : 77 
Thrust out past semce from the devil's 
stud ! 

1 it makes no difference ^ the old stalks of 
weeds or grass 



558 



ROBERT BROWNING 



Alive ? he might be dead for aught I know, 
With that red gaunt and colloped^ neck 

a-strain, 
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane ; 
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such 

woe; 
I neyer saw a brute I hated so ; 

He must be wicked to deserve such pain. 84 

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. 
As a man calls for wine before he fights, 
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, 

Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. 

Think first, fight afterwards — the soldier's 
art: 
One taste of the old time sets all to rights. 90 

Not it ! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face 
Beneath its garniture of curly gold, 
Dear feUow, till I almost felt him fold 
An arm in mine to fix me to the place. 
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace ! 
Out went my heart's new fire and left it 
cold. 96 

Giles then, the soul of honour — there he 

stands 
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. 
What honest man should dare (he said) he 

durst. 
Good — but the scene shifts — faugh ! what 

hangman hands 
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own 

bands 
. Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst ! 

Better this present than a past like that ; 1 03 
Back therefore to my darkening path again! 
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. 

WiU the night send a howlet or a bat ? 

I asked : vv^hen something on the dismal flat 
Came to arrest my thoughts and change 
their train. 108 

A sudden little river crossed my path 
As unexpected as a serpent comes. 
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms ; 
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath 
For the fiend's glowing hoof — to see the 
wrath 
Of its black eddy bespate ^ with flakes and 
spumes. 

^ Used of the folds or ridges of the horse's 
withered neck. * bespattered 



So petty yet so spiteful ! All along, 115 

Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it ; 
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a 
fit 
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng : 
The river which had done them all the wrong, 
Whate'er that was, roUed by, deterred no 
whit. 

Which, while I forded, — good saints, how I 
feared 121 

To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, 
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek 

For hoUows, tangled in his hair or beard ! 

— It majf have been a water-rat I speared, 
But, ugh ! it sounded like a baby's shriek. 

Glad was I when I reached the other bank. 127 

Now for a better country. Vain presage! 

Who were the strugglers, what war did they 

wage, 

Whose savage trample thus could pad the 

dank 
Soil to a plash ? Toads in a poisoned tank, 
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage — 132 

The fight must so have seemed in that fell 
cirque. 
What penned them there, with all the plain 

to choose? 
No footprint leading to that horrid mews, 
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work 
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the 
Turk 
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. 

And more than that — a furlong on — why, 

there! 139 

What bad use was that engine for, that 

wheel. 
Or brake, not wheel — that harrow fit to 
reel 
Men's bodies out like sfllc ? with aU the air ^ 
Of Tophet's tool,^ on earth left unaware, 143 
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of 
steel. 

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a 

wood, 
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now 

mere earth 
Desperate and done with : (so a fool finds 

mirth, 

^ look ^ an instrutaeut of hell 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI 



559 



Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood 
Changes and ofi' he goes !) within a rood — 
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black 
dearth. 150 

Now blotches ranklmg, coloured gay and grim, 
Now patches where some leanness of the 

soil's 
Broke into moss or substances like boils ; 
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him 
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim 
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. 

And just as far as ever from the end ! 157 

Naught in the distance but the evening, 

naught 
To point my footstep further ! At the 
thought, 
A great black bird, ApoUyon's bosom-friend, 
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon- 
penned ^ 
That brushed my cap — perchance the 
guide I sought. 162 

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place 
AH round to mountains — with such name 
to grace 
]\'Iere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in 

view. 
How thus they had surprised me, — solve it, 
you ! 
How to get from them was no clearer case. 

Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick 1 69 
Of mischief happened to me, God knows 

when — 
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, 
Progress this way. When, in the very nick 
Of giving up, one time more, came a click 173 
As when a trap shuts — you're inside the 
den ! 

Burningly it came on me all at once, 
This was the place ! those two hills on the 

right. 
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn 
in fight ; 
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . 

Dunce, 
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,^ 

After a life spent training for the sight ! 1 80 

^ provided with dragon feathers ; of. p. 240 
^ critical moment 



What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? 
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's 

heart, 
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart 
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking 

elf 
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf 
He strikes on, only when the timbers start. 

Not see ? because of night perhaps ? — why, 
day 187 

Came back again for that ! before it left. 
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft : 
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay. 
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, — 
"Now stab and end the creature — to the 
heft!" 192 

Not hear ? when noise was everywhere ! it 
tolled 
Increasing like a beU. Names in my ears, 
Of all the lost adventurers my peers, — - 
How such a one was strong, and such was bold, 
And such was fortunate, yet each of old 
Lost, lost ! one moment knelled the woe^f 
years. 198 

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, 
met 
To view the last of me, a living frame 
For one more picture ! in a sheet of flame 
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet 
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set. 
And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark 
Tower ca?ne." 204 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI 

I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave ! 
You need not clap your torches to my face. 
Zooks,"- what's to blame? you think you see a 

monk ! 
What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the 

rounds, 
And here you catch me at an alley's end 
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? 
The Carmine's my cloister : hunt it up. 
Do, — harry out, if you must show 5'our zeal, 
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole. 
And nip each sof tUng of a wee white mouse, i o 
Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company ! 
Aha, you know your betters ! Then, you'll take 

^ a mincing oath 



56o 



ROBERT BROWNING 



Your hand away that's fiddHng on my throat, 
And please to know me Hkewise. Who am I ? 
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend 
Three streets off — he's a certain . . . how 

d'ye call ? 
Master — a . . . Cosimo of the Medici,^ 
I' the house that caps the corner. Boh ! you 

were best ! 
Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged. 
How you affected such a guUet's-gripe ! 20 
But you, sir,2 it concerns you that your knaves 
Pick up a manner nor discredit you : 
Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the 

streets 
And count fair prize what comes into their 

net? 
He's Judas to a tittle, that man is ! 
Just such a face ! Why, sir, you make amends. 
Lord, I'm not angry ! Bid your hangdogs go 
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health 
Of the munificent House that harbours me 
(And many more beside, lads ! more beside !) 
And all's come square again. I'd like his face — 
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door 32 
With the pike and lantern, — for the slave 

that holds 
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair 
With one hand ("Look you, now," as who 

should say) 
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped ! 
It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, 
A wood-coal or the like ? or you should see ! 
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. 
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, 
You know them and they take you? like 

enough! 41 

I saw the proper twinkle in your eye — ■ 
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. 
Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to 

haunch. 
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes 

up bands 
To roam the town and sing out carnival. 
And I've been three weeks shut within my 

mew, 
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints 
And saints again. I could not paint all 

night — 49 

Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 
There came a hurry of feet and little feet, 
A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of 

song, — 

^ Cosimo de' Medici, the leading citizen of 
Florence ^ the leader of the band of watchmen 



Flower 0' the broom, 

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb ! 

Flower 0' the quince, 

I let Lisa go, and what good in life since? 

Flower 0' the thyme — and so on. Round they 

went.^ 
Scarce had they turned the corner when a 

titter 
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, — 

three slim shapes. 
And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, 

flesh and blood, 60 

That's all I'm made of ! Into shreds it went, 
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet. 
All the bed-furniture — a dozen knots, 
There was a ladder ! Down I let myself, 
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so 

dropped, 
And after them. I came up with the fun 
Hard by Saint Laurence,^ hail fellow, well 

•met, — 
Flower 0' the rose. 

If I've been merry, what matter who knows? 
And so as I was stealing back again 70 

To get to bed and have a bit of sleep 
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work 
On Jerome ^ knocking at his poor old breast 
With his great round stone to subdue the 

flesh. 
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see ! 
Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your 

head — 
Mine's shaved — a monk, you say — the 

sting's in that ! 
If Master Cosimo announced himself. 
Mum's the word naturally ; but a monk ! 
Come, what am I a beast for ? tell us, now ! 80 
I was a baby when my mother died 
And father died and left me in the street. 
I starved there, God knows how, a year or two 
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, 
Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, 
My stomach being empty as your hat. 
The wind doubled me up and down I went. 
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed ■* me with one hand, 
(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) 
And so along the wall, over the bridge, 90 

By the straight cut to the convent. Six words 

there. 
While I stood munching my first bread that 

month : 

^ i.e., they sang in turn ^ the famous church 
of San Lorenzo ^ an ascetic, and one of the four 
greatest churcii fathers ^ seized 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI 



561 



"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat 

father, 
Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time, — 
"To quit this very miserable world? 
Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of 

bread?" thought I; 
"By no means !" Brief, they made a monk of 

me ; 
I did renounce the world, its pride and greed. 
Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house. 
Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 100 
Have given their hearts to — all at eight years 

old. 
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 
'Twas not for nothing — the good bellyful. 
The warm serge and the rope that goes all 

. round, 
And day-long blessed idleness beside ! 
"Let's see what the urchin's fit for" — that 

came next. 
Not overmuch their way, I must confess. 
Such a to-do ! They tried me with their 

books ; 
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure 

waste ! 
Flower 0' the clove, no 

All the Latin I construe is " anio," I love! 
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the 

streets 
Eight years together, as my fortune was. 
Watching folk's faces to know who wall fling 
The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, 
And w^ho will curse or kick him for his pains, — 
Which gentleman processional ^ and fine. 
Holding a candle to the Sacrament, 
Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch 
The droppings of the wax to sell again, 1 20 
Or holla for the Eight ^ and have him whipped, 
How say I ? — nay, which dog bites, which 

lets drop 
His bone from the heap of offal in the street, — 
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike. 
He learns the look of tilings, and none the less 
For admonition from the hunger-pinch. 
I had a store of such remarks, be sure. 
Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. 
I drew men's faces on my copy-books,, 
Scrawled them wdthin the antiphonary's ' 

marge, 130 

Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes. 
Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, 

^ walking in procession with the Sacrament 
^ the magistrates ' book of antiphons or respon- 
sive songs 



And made a string of pictures of the w-orld 
Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, 
On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks 

looked black. 
"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye 

say? 
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. 
What if at last we get our man of parts. 
We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese ^ 139 
And Preaching Friars,^ to do our church up fine 
And put the front on it that ought to be ! " 
And hereupon he bade me daub away. 
Thank you ! my head being crammed, the 

walls a blank, 
Never was such prompt disemburdening. 
First, every sort of monk, the black and white, 
I drew them, fat and lean : then, folk at 

church. 
From good old gossips waiting to confess 
Their cribs ^ of barrel-droppings, candle- 
ends, — 
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, 
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 
With the little children round him in a row 151 
Of admiration, half for his beard and half 
For that white anger of his victim's son 
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, 
Signing himself with the other because of 

Christ 
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this 
After the passion of a thousand years) 
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, 
(Which the intense eyes looked through) 

came at eve 
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 160 
Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers 
(The brute took growling) , prayed, and so was 

gone. 
I painted all, then cried " 'Tis ask and have ; 
Choose, for more's ready !" — laid the ladder 

flat, 
And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. 
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud 
Till checked, taught what to see and not to see. 
Being simple bodies, — "That's the very 

man ! 
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog ! 
That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes 
To care about his asthma : it's the life !" 171 
But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and 

funked ; 
Their betters took their turn to see and say : 

^ Benedictine monks at Camaldoli ^ Domini- 
cans ; their painter was Fra Angelico ^ thefts 



562 



ROBERT BROWNING 



The Prior and the learned pvilled a face 

And stopped all that in no time. "How? 

what's here ? 
Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all ! 
Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true 
As much as pea and pea ! it's devil's-game ! 
Your business is not to catch men with show, 
With homage to the perishable clay, 1 80 

But lift them over it, ignore it all. 
Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. 
Your business is to paint the souls of men — 
Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's 

not . . . 
It's vapour done up like a new-born babe — 
(In that shspe when you die it leaves your 

mouth) 
It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the 

soul ! 
Give us no more of body than shows soul ! 
Here's Giotto,^ with his Saint a-praising 

God, 
That sets us praising, — why not stop with 

him ? 190 

Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head 
With wonder at lines, colours, and what not ? 
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms ! 
Rub all out, try at it a second time. 
Oh, that white smallish female with the 

breasts. 
She's just my niece . . . Herodias,^ I would 

say, — 
Who went and danced and got men's heads 

cut off ! 
Have it all out ! " Now, is this sense, I ask ? 
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body 
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further 
And can't fare worse ! Thus, yellow does for 

white 20 1 

When what you put for yellow's simply black, 
And any sort of meaning looks intense 
When all beside itself means and looks naught. 
Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, 
Left foot and right foot, go a double step. 
Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, 
Both in their order ? Take the prettiest face, 
The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint — is it so 

pretty 
You can't discover if it means hope, fear, 2 10 
Sorrow or joy ? won't beauty go with these ? 
Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, 
Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash, 

^ the first great Italian painter (i276?-i337) 
2 The Prior's memory is at fault, cf. Matt. 
xiv : 6, 



And then add soul and heighten them three- 
fold? 
Or say there's beauty with no soul at aU — 
(I never saw it — put the case the same — ) 
If you get simple beauty and naught else. 
You get about the best thing God invents : 
That's somewhat : and you'll find the soul you 

have missed. 
Within yourself, when you return him thanks. 
"Rub all out !" WeU, well, there's my life, 

in short, 221 

And so the thing has gone on ever since. 
I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken 

bounds : 
You should not take a feUow eight years old 
And make him swear to never kiss the girls. 
I'm my own master, paint now as I please, — 
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house ! 
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front — 
Those great rings serve more purposes than 

just 
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse ! 230 

And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave 

eyes 
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, 
The heads shake still — "It's art's decline, 

my son ! 
You're not of the true painters, great and old : 
Brother Angelico's ^ the man, you'U find ; 
Brother Lorenzo ^ stands his single peer : 
Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third ! " 
Flower 0' the pine, 
You keep your niistr . . . manners, and I'll 

stick to mine! 
I'm not the third, then : bless us, they must 

know ! 240 

Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, 
They with their Latin? So, I swaUow my 

rage, 
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and 

paint 
To please them — sometimes do and some- 
times don't ; 
For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come 
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my 

saints — 
A laugh, a. cry, the business of the world — 
{Flower 0' the peach, 

Death for us all, and his own life for each !) 249 
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, 
The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, 

^ Giovanni da Fiesole, called Fra Angelico 
from his fondness for painting angels ^ Lorenzo 
Monaco, of Sienna 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI 



563 



And I do these wild things in sheer despite, 
And play the fooleries you catch me at, 
In pure rage ! The old mill-horse, out at grass 
After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, 
Although the miller does not preach to him 
The only good of grass is to make chaft". 
What would men have ? Do they like grass or 

no — 
JVIay they or mayn't they? all I want's the 

thing 
Settled forever one way. As it is, 260 

You tell too many lies and hurt yourself : 
You don't like what you only like too much. 
You do like what, if given you at your word, 
You find abundantly detestable. 
For me, I think I speak as I was taught ; 
I always see the garden and God there 
A-making man's wife : and, my lesson learned. 
The value and significance of flesh, 
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. 

You imderstand me: I'm a beast, I know. 
But see, now — why, I see as certainly 271 
As that the morning-star's about to shine, 
What will hap some day. We've a youngster 

here 
Comes to our convent, studies what I do, 
Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop : 
His name is Guidi^ — he'll not mind the 

monks — 
They call him Hidking Tom,^ he lets them 

'talk — 
He picks my practice up — he'll paint apace, 
I hope so — ■ though I never Uve so long, 
I know what's sure to follow. You be judge ! 
You speak no Latin more than I, behke ; 28 1 
However you're my man, you've seen the world 

— The beauty and the wonder and the power. 
The shapes of things, their colours, lights and 

shades. 
Changes, surprises, — and God made it all ! 

— For what ? Do you feel thankful, ay or no. 
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line. 
The mountain round it and the sky above. 
Much more the figures of man, woman, child. 
These are the frame to ? What's it all about ? 
To be passed over, despised ? or dwelt upon, 
Wondered at ? oh, this last of course ! — you 

say. 292 

But why not do as well as say, — paint these 
Just as they are, careless what comes of it? 
God's works — paint any one, and count it 

crime • 

^Tommaso Guidi (1401-28) ^Masaccio 



To let a truth slip. Don't object, " His works 
Are here already ; nature is complete : 
Suppose you reproduce her — (which you 

can't) 
There's no advantage ! you must beat her, 

then." 
For, don't you mark ? we're made so that we 

love 300 

First when we see them painted, things we 

have passed 
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see ; 
And so they are better, painted — better to us, 
Which is the same thing. Art was given for 

that; 
God uses us to help each other so, 
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, 

now. 
Your cullion's hanging face! A bit of chalk, 
And trust me but you should, though ! How 

much more. 
If I drew higher things with the same truth ! 
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, 3 10 
Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh. 
It makes me mad to see what men shall do 
And we in our graves ! This world's no blot 

for us. 
Nor blank ; it means intensely, and means 

good: 
To find its meaning is my meat and drink. 
"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer ! " 
Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's 

plain 
It does not say to folk — remember matins, 
Or, mind you fast next Friday ! " Why, for 

this 
What need of art at all ? A skull and bones. 
Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's 

best, 321 

A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. 
I painted a Saint Laurence ^ six months since 
At Prato,^ splashed the fresco in fine style: 
"How looks mv painting, now the scaffold's 

down?" 
I ask a brother : " Hugely," he returns — 
"Already not one phiz of your three slaves 
Wlio turn the Deacon oft" his toasted side,^ 
But's scratched and prodded to our heart's 

content. 
The pious people have so eased their own 330 
With coming to say prayers there in a rage : 
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 

^ a martyr who. was broiled on a gridiron 
* twelve miles west of Florence ^ He asked to 
be turned over, as one side was "done." 



564 

Expect another job this time next year, 
For pity and reUgion grow i' the crowd — 
Your painting serves its purpose !" Hang the 
fools ! 

— That is — you'll not mistake an idle word 
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, 
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns 
The Lmaccustomed head like Chianti wine ! 
Oh, the church knows ! don't misreport me, 

now ! 340 

It's natural a poor monk out of bounds 
Should have his apt word to excuse himself : 
And hearken how I plot to make amends. 
I have bethought me : I shall paint a piece 
. . . There's for you ! Give me six months, 

then go, see 
Something in Sant' Ambrogio's ! ^ Bless the 

nuns ! 
They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint 
God in the midst. Madonna and her babe. 
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood. 
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 
As puff on puff of grated orris-root 351 

When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer. 
And then i' the front, of course a saint or 

two — 
Saint John, 2 because he saves the Florentines, 
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and 

white 
The convent's friends and gives them a long 

day. 
And Job, I must have him there past mistake, 
The man of Uz (and Us without the z. 
Painters who need his patience). Well, all 

these 
Secured at their devotion, up shall come 360 
Out of a corner when you least expect, 
As one by a dark stair into a great light, 
Music and talking, who but Lippo ! I ! — 
Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck — I'm 

the man ! 
Back I shrink — what is this I see and 

hear? 
I, caught up with my monk's-things by mis- 
take, 
My old serge gown and rope that goes all 

round, 
I, in this presence, this pure company ! 
Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape ? 
Then steps a sweet, angelic slip of a thing 3 70 

^a convent dedicated to St. Ambrose (340?- 
3Q7), one of the four greatest church fathers 
^ John the Baptist, patron saint of Florence 



ROBERT BROWNING 



Forward, puts out a soft palm — -"Not so 

fast!" 
— Addresses the celestial presence, "nay — ■ 
He made you and devised you, after all, 
Though he's none of you ! Could Saint John 

there draw — ■ 
His camel-hair made up a painting-brush ? 
We come to brother Lippo for aU that, 
Iste per fecit opus!"^ So, all smile — 
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face 
Under the cover of a hundred wings 379 

Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're 

gay 

And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, 
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops 
The hothead husband ! Thus I scuttle off 
To some safe bench behind, not letting go 
The palm of her, the little lily thing 
That spoke the good word for me in the nick. 
Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I 

would say. 
And so all's saved for me, and for the church 
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months 

hence ! 
Your hand, sir, and good-by : no lights, no 

lights ! 390 

The street's hushed, and I know my own way 

back. 
Don't fear me ! There's the grey beginning. 

Zooks ! 

ONE WORD MORE 
TO E. B. B. 
London, September, 1855 
I 

There they are, my fifty men and women 
Naming me the fifty poems finished ! 
Take them, Love, the book and me together; 
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. 



II 

Rafael made a century of sonnets, 
Made and wrote them in a certain volume 
Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil 
Else he only used to draw Madonnas : 
These, the world might view — but one, the 

volume. 
Who that one, you ask ? Your heart instructs 

you. 

^"He painted the picture." 



ONE WORD MORE 



56s 



Did she live and love it all her lifetime ? 11 
Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, 
Die, and let it drop beside her pillow 
Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, 
Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving — 
Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, 
Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's ? 

Ill 

You and I would rather read that volume, 
(Taken to his beating bosom by it) 
Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, 20 
Would we not ? than wonder at Madonnas — 
Her, San Sisto ^ names, and Her, Foligno,^ 
Her, that visits Florence in a vision,^ 
Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre * — 
Seen by us and all the world in circle. 



Says he — "Certain people of importance" 
(Such he gave his daily dreadful Hne to) 
" Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." 
Says the poet — "Then I stopped my paint- 
ing." 

VI 

You and I would rather see that angel, 50 

Painted by the tenderness of Dante, 
Would we not ? — than read a fresh Inferno. 

VII 

You and I will never see that picture. 
While he mused on love and Beatrice, 
While he softened o'er his outlined angel. 
In they broke, those "people of importance :" 
We and Bice ^ bear the loss forever. 



IV 

You and I will never read that volume. 
Guido Reni,^ like his own eye's apple 
Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. 
Guido Reni dying, all Bologna 
Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the 
treasure !" 30 

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. 



Dante once prepared to paint an angel : 
Whom to please ? You whisper "Beatrice." ^ 
While he mused and traced it and retraced it, 
(Peradventure with a pen corroded 
Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for. 
When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked,'^ 
Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma. 
Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment. 
Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle. 
Let the wretch go festering through Flor- 
ence) — 
Dante, who loved well because he hated, 
Hated wickedness that hinders loving, 
Dante standing, studying his angel, — 
In there broke the folk of his Inferno. 

^ the Sistine Madonna, now in Dresden ^ the 
Madonna di Foligno, now in the Vatican at Rome 
' the Madonna del Granduca, representing her as 
appearing to a votarj' in a vision ^ In the Louvre 
at Paris, the Madonna called La Belle Jardiniere 
is seated in a garden. ^ a Florentine painter 
(1575-1642) ^Beatrice Portinari, Dante's ideal 
love ^ cf. Inferno, xxxii, 97 

AE 



VIII 

What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture ? 
This : no artist lives and loves, that longs 

not 
Once, and only once, and for one only, 60 

(Ah, the prize !) to find his love a language 
Fit and fair and simple and sufficient — 
Using nature that's an art to others, 
Not, this one time, art that's turned his 

nature. 
Ay, of all the artists living, loving. 
None but would forego his proper dowry, — 
Does he paint ? he fain would write a poem, — 
Does he write ? he fain Avould paint a picture, 
Put to proof art alien to the artist's. 
Once, and only once, and for one only, 70 
So to be the man and leave the artist, 
Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. 

rx 

Wherefore ? Heaven's gift takes earth's 
abatement ! 
He who smites the rock and spreads the 

water,^ 
Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, 
Even he, the minute makes immortal. 
Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, 
Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. 
While he smites, how can he but remember, 
So he smote before, in such a peril, 80 

When they stood and mocked — "Shall smit- 
ing help us?" 

^ diminutive of Beatrice ^ Moses, cf . Num. xx. 



566 



ROBERT BROWNING 



When they drank and sneered — "A stroke is 
easy !" 

When they wiped their mouths and went their 
journey, 

Throwing him for thanks — "But drought 
was pleasant." 

Thus old memories mar the actual triumph ; 

Thus the doing savours of disreUsh ; 

Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat ; 

O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, 

Carelessness or consciousness — the gesture. 

For he bears an ancient wrong about him, 90 

Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces. 

Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prel- 
ude — 

"How shouldst thou of all men, smite, and 
save us?" 

Guesses what is like to prove the sequel — . 

"Egypt's flesh-pots^ — nay, the drought was 
better." 

X 

Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant ! 
Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilhance,^ 
Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. 
Never dares the man put off the prophet. 



XI 

Did he love one face from out the thousands, 
(Were she Jethro's daughter,^ white and 
wifely, loi 

Were she but the ^Ethiopian bondslave,) "* 
He would envy yon dumb patient camel, 
Keeping a reserve of scanty water 
Meant to save his own life in the desert ; 
Ready in the desert to deliver 
(Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) 
Hoard and life together for his mistress. 

XII 

I shall never, in the years remaining. 
Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, 
Make you music that should all-express me ; 
So it seems : I stand on my attainment. 112 
This of verse alone, one life allows me ; 
Verse and nothing else have I to give you. 
Other heights in other lives, God wUling : 
All the gifts from all the heights, your own, 
Love ! 

^ cf. Exodus x\\ : 3 ^ Exodus xxxiv : 29 ^Exodus 
ji : 2 1 * Numbers xii : i 



XIII 

Yet a semblance of resource avails us — 
Shade so finely touched, love's sense must 

seize it. 
Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly. 
Lines I write the first time and the last time. 
He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, 
Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, 
Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, 123 
Makes a strange art of an art familiar, 
Fills his lady's missal-marge ^ with flowerets. 
He who blows through bronze, m.ay breathe 

through silver. 
Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. 
He who writes, may write for once as I do. 

XIV 

Love, you saw me gather men and women, 
Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, 130 
Enter each and all, and use their service, 
Speak from every mouth, — the speech, a 

poem. 
Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, 
Hopes and fears, behef and disbelieving : 
I am mine and yours — the rest be all men's, 
Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty.^ 
Let me speak this once in my true person. 
Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, 
Though the fruit of speech be just this sen- 
tence : 
Pray you, look on these my men and women, 
Take and keep my fifty poems finished ; 141 
Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also ! 
Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all 
things. 

XV 

Not but that you know me ! Lo, the moon's 

self ! 
Here in London, yonder late in Florence, 
Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. 
Curving on a sky imbrued with colour. 
Drifted over Fiesole by twilight. 
Came she, our new crescent of a hair's- 

breadth. 
Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato,^ 150 
Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder. 
Perfect till the nightingales applauded. 
Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, 

^ The margins of missals and other service 
books were often filled with beautiful pictures of 
flowers, birds, etc. ^ Characters in Browning's 
Men and Women ^ a mountain near Florence 



ABT VOGLER 



567 



Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs, 
Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver. 
Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. 

XVI 

What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? 
Nay : for if that moon could love a mortal, 
Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), 
All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos ^) , 1 60 
She would turn a new side to her mortal, 
Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steers- 
man — 
Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace. 
Blind to Galileo on his turret. 
Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats — him, even ! 
Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mor- 
tal — 
Wlien she turns round, comes again in heaven. 
Opens out anew for worse or better ! 
Proves she like some portent of an iceberg 
Swimming full upon the ship it founders, 1 70 
Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals ? 
Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire 
Seen by Moses ^ when he climbed the moun- 
tain ? 
Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu 
Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, 
Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. 
Like the bodied heaven in his clearness 
Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved 

work, 
When they ate and drank and saw God also ! 

XVII 



None knows, none ever 
180 
the sight were other, 

side, born late in 



What were seen ? 

shall know. 
Only this is sure — 
Not the moon's same 

Florence, 

Dying now impoverished here in London. 
God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures 
Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world 

with. 
One to show a woman when he loves her ! 



XVIII 

This I say of mc, but think of .you. Love ! 
This to you — yourself my moon of poets! 

■ the myth of Endymion, beloved of the moon 
goddess ^ Exodus xxiv : 10 



Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the 

wonder. 
Thus they see you, praise you, think they 

know you ! igo 

There, in turn I stand with them and praise 

you — 
Out of my own self, I dare to phrase' it. 
But the best is when I glide from out them, 
Cross a step or two of dubious twilight. 
Come out on the other side, the novel 
Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, 
Where I hush and bless myself with silence. 

XIX 

Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, 
Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, 199 
Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing it. 
Drew one angel — borne, see, on my bosorn ! 

— R. B. 



ABT VOGLER 

AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORISING 

UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 

OF HIS INVENTION 

Would that the structure brave, the manifold 
music I build. 
Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to 
their v/ork, 
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, 
as when Solomon willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demon 
that lurk, 
Man, brute, reptile, fly, — alien of end and of 
aim. 
Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, 
hell-deep removed, — 
Should rush into sight at once as he named the 
ineffable Name, 
And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure 
the princess he loved ! 8 

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful 
building of mine. 
This which my keys in a crowd pressed and 
importuned to raise ! 

Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dis- 
part now and now corhbine. 
Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their 
master his praise ! 

And one would bury his brow with a blind 
plunge down to hell, 



''jm^ 



568 



ROBERT BROWNING 



Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots 

of things, 
Then up again swim into sight, having based 

me my palace well. 
Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the 

nether springs. i6 

And another would mount and march, like the 
excellent minion he was. 
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but 
with many a crest. 
Raising my rampired walls of gold as transpar- 
ent as glass. 
Eager to do and die, yield each his place to 
the rest : 
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips 
with fire. 
When a great illumination surprises a festal 
night — 
Outlined round and round Rome's dome from 
space to spire) 
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the 
pride of my soul was in sight. 24 

In sight? Not half ! for it seemed, it was 
certain, to match man's birth. 
Nature in turn conceived, obeying an 
impulse as I ; 
And the emulous heaven yearned down, made 
effort to reach the earth, 
As the earth had done her best, in my pas- 
sion, to scale the sky : 
Novel splendours burst forth, grew familiar 
and dwelt with mine. 
Not a point nor peak but found and fixed 
its wandering star ; 
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and they did 
not pale nor pine. 
For earth had attained to heaven, there was 
no more near nor far. 32 

Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked 
in the glare and glow, 
Presences plain in the place ; or, fresh from 
the Protoplast,^ 
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier 
wind should blow, 
Lured now to begin and live, in a house to 
their liking at last ; 
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed 
through the body and gone, 
But were back once more to breathe in an 
old world worth their new : 

' Creator 



What never had been, was now ; what was, as 
it shall be anon ; 
And what is, — shall I say, matched both ? 
for I was made perfect too. 40 

All through ^ my keys that gave their sounds to 
a wish of my soul, 
All through my soul that praised as its wish 
flowed visibly forth. 
All through music and me ! For think, had I 
painted the whole. 
Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the 
process so wonder-worth : 
Had I written the same, made verse — still, 
effect proceeds from cause, 
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear 
how the tale is told ; 
It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience 
to laws, 
Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list 
enrolled : — 48 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will 
that can. 
Existent behind all laws, that made them 
and, lo, they are ! 
And I know not if, save in this, such gift be 
allowed to man. 
That out of three sounds he frame, not a 
fourth sound, but a star. 
Consider it well : each tone of our scale in 
itself is naught : 
It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, 
and all is said : 
Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my 
thought : 
And there ! Ye have heard and seen : con- 
sider and bow the head ! 56 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I 
reared ; 
Gone ! and the good tears start, the praises 
that come too slow ; 
For one is assured at first, one scarce can say 
that he feared, 
That he even gave it a thought, the gone 
thing was to go. 
Never to be again ! But many more of the 
kind 
As good, nay, better perchance : is this your 
comfort to me ? 
To me, who must be saved because I cling 
with my mind 

* by means of 



RABBI BEN EZRA 



569 



To the same, same self, same love, same 
God : ay, what was, shall be. 64 

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the inef- 
fable Name ? 
Builder and maker, thou, of houses not 
made with hands ! 
What, have fear of change from thee who art 
ever the same ? 
Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that 
thy power expands ? 
There shall never be one lost good ! What 
was, shall live as before ; 
The evil is null, is naught, is silence imply- 
ing sound ; 
What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so 
much good more ; 
On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven 
a perfect round. 7 2 

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good 
shall exist ; 
Not its semblance, but itself ; no beauty, 
nor good, nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives 
for the melodist 
When eternity afi&rms the conception of an 
hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic for 
earth too hard, 
The passion that left the groimd to lose 
itself in the sky, 
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the 
bard; 
Enough that he heard it once : we shall hear 
it by and by. 80 

And what is our failure here but a triumph's 
evidence 
For the fullness of the days ? Have we with- 
ered or agonized ? 
Why else was the pause prolonged but that 
singing might issue thence ? 
Why rushed the discords in, but that har- 
mony should be prized ? 
Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to 
clear, 
Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the 
weal and woe : 
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in 
the ear ; 
The rest may reason and welcome : 'tis we 
musicians know. 88 



Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her 
reign : 
I will be patient and proud, and soberly ac- 
quiesce. 
Give me the keys, I feel for the common 
chord again. 
Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor, 
— yes. 
And I blimt it into a ninth, and I stand on 
alien ground, 
Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from 
into the deep ; 
Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my 
resting-place is found. 
The C Major of this life : so, now I will 
try to sleep. 96 

RABBI BEN EZRA 

Grow old along with me ! 
The best is yet to be. 

The last of life, for which the first was made : 
Our times are in his hand 
Who saith, "A whole I planned. 
Youth shows but half ; trust God : see all, nor 
be afraid!" 6 

Not that, amassing flowers, 
Youth sighed, "Wliich rose make ours, 
Which lily leave and then as best recall ? " 
Not that, admiring stars, 
It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 
Mine be some figured flame which blends, 
transcends them all !" 12 

Not for such hopes and fears 
Annulling youth's brief years. 
Do I remonstrate : folly wide the mark ! 
Rather I prize the doubt 
Low kinds exist without, 17 

Finished and finite clods, imtroubled by a 
spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed. 
Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast : 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men ; 

Irks care ^ the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt ^ the 
maw-crammed beast ? 24 

Rejoice we are allied 

To that which doth provide 

^ Subject of the verb. 



S70 



ROBERT BROWNING 



And not partake, effect and. not receive ! 
A spark disturbs our clod ; 
Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must 
beheve. 30 

Then, welcome each rebuff 
That turns earth's smoothness rough. 
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 
Be our joys three-parts pain ! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
Learn, nor accoimt the pang; dare, never 
grudge the throe ! 36 

For thence, — a paradox 
Which comforts while it mocks, — 
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 
What I aspired to be. 
And was not, comforts me : 
A brute I might have been, but would not 
sink i' the scale. 42 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh has soul to suit, 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want 

play? 
To man, propose this test — 
Thy body at its best, 
How far can that project thy soul on its lone 

way? 48 

Yet gifts should prove their use : 
I own the Past profuse 
Of power each side, perfection every turn : 
Eyes, ears took in their dole. 
Brain treasured up the whole ; 
Should not the heart beat once How good to 
live and learn" ? 54 

Not once beat "Praise be thine ! 
I see the whole design, 

I, who saw power, see now love perfect too : 
Perfect I call thy plan : 
Thanks that I was a man! 
Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what 
thou shalt do"? 60 

For pleasant is this flesh ; 
Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest : 
Would we some prize might hold 
To match those manifold 
Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we 
did best ! 66 



Let us not always say, 

" Spite of this flesh to-day 

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the 

whole!" . 
As the bird wings and sings, 
Let us cry, "All good things 
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than 

flesh helps soul ! " 72 

Therefore I summon age 
To grant youth's heritage. 
Life's struggle having so far reached its term : 
Thence shall I pass, approved 
A man, for aye removed 
From the developed brute ; a god, though in 
the germ. 78 

And I shall thereupon 
Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new : 
Fearless and unperplexed. 
When I wage battle next, 
What weapons to select, what armour to in- 
due.i 84 

Youth ended, I shall try 
My gain or loss thereby ; 
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : 
And I shall weigh the same. 
Give life its praise or blame : 
Young, all lay in dispute ; I shaU know, being 
old. 90 

For note, when evening shuts, 
A certain moment cuts 
The deed off, calls the glory from the grey : 
A whisper from the west 
Shoots — "Add this to the rest. 
Take it and try its worth : here dies another 
day." 96 

So, stiU within this life, 
Though lifted o'er its strife. 
Let me discern, compare, pronoimce at last, 
"This rage was right i' the main, 
That acquiescence vain : 
The Future I may face now I have proved the 
Past." 102 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 

Here, work enough - to watch 



put on 



i.e., it is work enough 



RABBI BEN EZRA 



571 



The Master work, and catch 
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's 
true play. 108 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth. 

Toward making, than repose on aught found 

made : 
So, better, age, exempt 
From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further. Thou waitedst age : wait death nor 

be afraid ! 114 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine 

own, 
With knowledge absolute, 
Subject to no dispute 
From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee 

feel alone. 120 

Be there, for once and all. 
Severed great minds from small, 
Announced to each his station in the Past ! 
Was I, the world arraigned. 
Were they, my soul disdained, 
Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us 
peace at last ! 126 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 
Ten men love what I hate, 
Shun what I foUow, slight what I receive ; 
Ten, who in ears and eyes 
Match me : we all surmise. 
They this thing, and I that : whom shall my 
soul believe? 132 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called "work," must sentence pass, 

Things done, that took the eye and had the 

price ; 
O'er which, from level stand. 
The low world laid its hand, 
Found straightway to its mind, could value in 

a trice: 138 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 
And finger failed to plumb. 
So passed in making up the main account ; 
All instincts immature. 
All purposes unsure, 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the 
man's amount : 144 



Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act, 

Fancies that broke through language and es- 
caped ; 

All I could never be, 

All, men ignored in me, 

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the 
pitcher shaped.^ 150 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel. 

That metaphor ! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our 

clay, — 
Thou, to whom fools propound, 
When the wine makes its round, 
" Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, 

seize to-day !" 156 

Fool ! All that is, at all. 

Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand 

sure: 
What entered into thee, 
That was, is, and shall be : 
Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and 

clay endure. 162 

He fixed thee 'mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain 
arrest : 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent, 

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently im- 
pressed. 1 68 

What though the earlier grooves, 
Which ran the laughing loves 
Around thy base, no longer pause and press? 
What though, about thy rim, 
Skull-things in order grim 173 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner 
stress ? 

Look not thou down but up ! 

To uses of a cup. 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's 

peal, 
The new wine's foaming flow, 
The Master's lips aglow ! 
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what ncedst 

thou with earth's wheel? 180 

^ cf. Jeremiah xviii : 2-6 ; Isaiah xlv : 9 ; Ro- 
mans ix : 21. 



572 



ROBERT BROWNING 



But I need, now as then, 
Thee, God, who mouldest men ; 
And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 
Did I — to the wheel of life. 
With shapes and colours rife. 
Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake thy 
thirst: i86 

So, take and use thy work : 

Amend what flaws may lurk. 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past 

the aim ! 
My times be in thy hand ! 
Perfect the cup as planned ! 
Let age approve of youth, and death complete 

the same ! 192 

APPARITIONS 

Such a starved bank of moss 

Till, that May-morn, 
Blue ran the flash across : 

Violets were born ! 

Sky — what a scowl of cloud 

Till, near and far, 
Ray on ray split the shroud : 

Splendid, a star ! 

World — how it walled about 

Life with disgrace 10 

Till God's own smile came out : 
That was thy face ! 

WANTING IS — WHAT? 

Wanting is — what ? 

Summer redundant, 

Blueness abundant, 

— Where is the blot ? 
Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, 
— Framework which waits for a picture to 

frame : 
What of the leafage, what of the flower? 
Roses embowering with naught they em- 
bower ! 
Come then, complete incompletion, O comer, 
Pant through the blueness, perfect the sum- 
mer ! 10 

Breathe but one breath 

Rose-beauty above. 

And all that was death 

Grows life, grows love, 

Grows love ! 



NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE 

Never the time and the place 

And the loved one all together ! 
This path — how soft to pace ! 

This May — what magic weather ! 
Where is the loved one's face? 
In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, 

But the house is narrow, the place is bleak, 
Where, outside, rain and wind combine 

With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, 

With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, 10 

With a malice that marks each word, each sign ! 

O enemy sly and serpentine. 

Uncoil thee from the waking man ! 
Do I hold the Past 
Thus firm and fast. 
Yet doubt if the Future hold I can? 
This path so soft to pace shaU lead 
Through the magic of May to herself indeed ! 
Or narrow if needs the house must be, 
Outside are the storms and strangers : we — ■ 
Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, 21 
— I and she ! 



THE EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 

When you set your fancies free, 
Will they pass to where — by death, fools 

think, imprisoned — 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you 

loved so, 

— Pity me ? 5 

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken ! 

What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the un- 
manly ? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel 

— Being — who ? 10 

One who never turned his back but marched 
breast forward. 
Never doubted clouds would break. 
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, 

wrong would triumph, 
Held we faU to rise, are baffled to fight better. 
Sleep to wake. 1 5 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work- 
time 
Greet the unseen with a cheer ! 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 



573 



Bid him forward, breast and back as either 

should be, 
" Strive and thrive ! " cry " Speed, — fight on, 

fare ever 

There as here !" 20 



WILLL\M MAKEPEACE THACK- 
ERAY (1811-1863) 

THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS 
STERNE 

Roger Sterne, Sterne's father, was the second 
son of a numerous race, descendants of 
Richard Sterne, Archbishop of York, in the 
reign of Charles II; and children of Simon 
Sterne and Mary Jaques, his wife, heiress of 
Elvington, near York. Roger was an ensign 
in Colonel Hans Hamilton's regiment, and 
engaged in Flanders in Queen Anne's wars. 
He married the daughter of a noted sutler, — 
"N. B., he was in debt to him," his son writes, 
pursuing the paternal biography — and. 
marched through the world with his com- 
panion ; she following the regiment and bring- 
ing many children to poor Roger Sterne. The 
Captain was an irascible but kind and simple 
little man, Sterne says, and he informs us that 
his sire was run through the body at Gibraltar, 
by a brother officer, in a duel which arose out 
of a dispute about a goose. Roger never en- 
tirely recovered from the effects of this ren- 
contre, but died presently at Jamaica, whither 
he had followed the drum. 

Laurence, his second child, was born at 
Clonmel, in Ireland, in 1713, and travelled 
for the first ten years of his life, on his father's 
march, from barrack to transport, from Ire- 
land to England. 

One relative of his mother's took her and 
her family under shelter for ten months at 
MuUingar ; another collateral descendant of 
the Archbishop's housed them for a year at his 
castle near Carrickfergus. Larry Sterne was 
put to school at Halifax in England, finally 
was adopted by his kinsman of Elvington, and 
parted company with his father, the Captain, 
who marched on his path of life till he met the 
fatal goose which closed his career. The most 
picturesque and delightful parts of Laurence 
Sterne's writings we owe to his recollections of 
the military life. Trim's montero cap, and 
Le Fevre's sword, and dear Uncle Toby's ro- 



quelaure^ are doubtless reminiscences of the 
boy, who had lived with the followers of Wil- 
liam and Marlborough, and had beat time with 
his little feet to the fifes of Ramillies^ in Dublin 
barrack-yard, or played with the torn flags 
and halberds of Malplaquet^ on the parade- 
ground at Clonmel. 

Laurence remained at Halifax school till 
he was eighteen years old. His wit and clever- 
ness appear to have acquired the respect of 
his master here ; for when the usher * whipped 
Laurence for writing his name on the newly 
whitewashed schoolroom ceiling, the peda- 
gogue in chief rebuked the understrapper, and 
said that the name should never be effaced, 
for Sterne was a boy of genius, and would 
come to preferment. 

His cousin, the Squire of Elvington, sent 
Sterne to Jesus College, Cambridge, where he 
remained some years, and, taking orders,^ got, 
through his uncle's interest, the living^ of Sut- 
ton and a prebendal stall ^ at York. Through 
his wife's connections he got the living of Still- 
ington. He married her in 1741, having 
ardently courted the young lady for some 
years previously. It was not until the young 
lady fancied herself dying, that she made 
Sterne acquainted with the extent of her liking 
for him. One evening when he was sitting 
with her, with an almost broken heart to see 
her so ill (the Reverend Mr. Sterne's heart 
was a good deal broken in the course of his 
hfe), she said — "My dear Laurey, I never 
can be yours, for I verily believe I have not 
long to live ; but I have left you every shilling 
of my fortune;" a generosity which over- 
powered Sterne. She recovered : and so they 
were married, and grew heartily tired of each 
other before many years were over. "Nescio 
quid est materia cum me," Sterne writes to 
one of his friends (in dog-Latin, and very sad 
dog-Latin too) ; "sed sum fatigatus et aegro- 
tus de mea uxore plus quam unquam : " which 
means, I am sorry to say, "I don't know what 
is the matter with me ; but I am more tired 
and sick of my wife than ever." 

This to be sure was five-and-twenty years 
after Laurey had been overcome by her gen- 
erosity, and she by Laurey's love. Then he 
wrote to her of the delights of marriage, say- 

^ See Tristram Shandy, ^a battle in 1706 
^ a battle in 1709 ^ assistant teacher ^ becoming 
a clergyman '' income as rector ^ income for 
occasional services at the cathedral 



574 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 



ing, "We will be as merry and as innocent as 
our first parents in Paradise, before the arch- 
fiend entered that indescribable scene. The 
kindest affections will have room to expand in 
our retirement: let the human tempest and 
hurricane rage at a distance, the desolation is 
beyond the horizon of peace. My L. has seen 
a polyanthus blow in December ? — Some 
friendly waU. has sheltered it from the biting 
wind. No planetary influence shall reach us 
but that which presides and cherishes the 
sweetest flowers. The gloomy family of care 
and distrust shall be banished from our dwell- 
ing, guarded by thy kind and tutelar deity. 
We will sing our choral songs of gratitude 
and rejoice to the end of our pilgrimage. 
Adieu, my L. Return to one who languishes 
for thy society ! — As I take up my pen, m-y 
poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and 
tears are trickling down on my paper as I 
trace the word L." 

And it is about this woman, with whom he 
finds no fault but that she bores him, that our 
philanthropist writes, "Sum fatigatus et 
aegrotus" — Sum mortaliter in amore'^ with 
somebody else ! That fine flower of love, that 
polyanthus over which Sterne snivelled so 
many tears, could not last for a quarter of a 
century ! 

Or rather it could not be expected that a 
gentleman with such a fountain at command 
should keep it to arroser ^ one homely old lady, 
when a score of younger and prettier people 
might be refreshed from the same gushing 
source. It was in December 1767, that the 
Reverend Laurence Sterne, the famous Shan- 
dean,^ the charming Yorick,^ the delight of the 
fashionable world, the delicious divine for 
whose sermons the whole polite world was sub- 
scribing, the occupier of Rabelais's easy-chair, 
only fresh stuffed and more elegant than when 
in the possession of the cynical old curate of 
Meudon,^ — ■ the more than rival of the Dean 
of Saint Patrick's,^ wrote the above-quoted 
respectable letter to his friend in London : 
and it was in April of the same year that he 
was pouring out his fond heart to Mrs. Eliza- 
beth Draper, wife of "Daniel Draper, Esquire, 
Councillor of Bombay, and, in 177S, chief of 

^ I am mortally in love ^ sprinkle ' creator 
of Tristram Shandy ^ a name assumed by 
Sterne in Tristram Shandy from Hamlet, V, i, iq8 
^ Frangois Rabelais, a famous French satirist 
(i495?-iSS3) 6 Swift 



the factory of Surat — a gentleman very much 
respected in that quarter of the globe." 

"I got thy letter last night, Eliza," Sterne 
writes, "on rhy return from Lord Bathurst's, 
where I dined" — (the letter has this merit 
in it, that it contains a pleasant reminiscence 
of better men than Sterne, and introduces us 
to a portrait of a kind old gentleman) — "I 
got thy letter last night, Eliza, on my return 
from Lord Bathurst's ; and where I was heard 
— as I talked of thee an hour without inter- 
mission — with so much pleasure and atten- 
tion, that the good old Lord toasted your 
health three different times ; and now he is in 
his 85th year, sa5^s he hopes to Hve long enough 
to be introduced as a friend to my fair Indian 
disciple, and to see her ecHpse all other Nabob- 
esses as much in wealth as she does already 
in exterior and, what is far better" (for Sterne 
is nothing without his morality), "in interior 
merit. This nobleman is an old friend of 
mine. You know he was always the protector 
of men of wit and genius, and has had those 
of the last century, Addison, Steele, Pope, 
Swift, Prior, &c., always at his table. The 
manner in which his notice began of me was 
as singular as it was polite. He came up to 
me one day as I was at the Princess of Wales's 
Court, and said, 'I want to know j^ou, Mr. 
Sterne, but it is fit you also should know who 
it is that • wishes this pleasure. You have 
heard of an old Lord Bathurst, of whom your 
Popes and Swifts have sung and spoken so 
much ? I have lived my life with geniuses of 
that cast ; but have survived them ; and, de- 
spairing ever to find their equals, it is some 
years since I have shut up my books and closed 
my accounts; but you have kindled a desire 
in me of opening them once more before I die : 
which I now do : so go home and dine with 
me.' This nobleman, I say, is a prodigy, for 
he has all the wit and promptness of a man of 
thirty ; a disposition to be pleased, and a 
power to please others, beyond whatever I 
knew; added to which a man of learning, 
courtesy, and feeling. 

"He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with un- 
common satisfaction — for there was only a 
third person, and of sensibility, with us : and 
a most sentimental afternoon, till nine o'clock 
have we passed ! But thou, Eliza, wert the 
star that conducted and enlivened the dis- 
course! And when I talked not of thee, still 

^ i.e., indulging in line sentiments 



THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS 



575 



didst thou fill my mind, and warm every 
thought I uttered, for I am not ashamed to 
acknowledge I greatly miss thee. Best of all 
good girls ! the sufferings I have sustained all 
night in consequence of thine, Eliza, are be- 
yond the power of words. . . . And so thou 
hast fixed thy Bramin's portrait over thy 
writing-desk, and wilt consult it in all doubts 
and difficulties? — Grateful and good girl! 
Yorick smiles contentedly over all thou dost : 
his picture does not do justice to his own com- 
placency. I am glad your shipmates are 
friendly beings" (Eliza was at Deal, going 
back to the Councillor at Bombay, and in- 
deed it was high time she should be off). 
"You could least dispense with what is con- 
trar}'- to your own nature, which is soft and 
gentle, Eliza ; it would civilise savages — 
though pity were it thou shouldst be tainted 
with the office. Write to me, my child, thy 
delicious letters. Let them speak the easy 
carelessness of a heart that opens itself any- 
how, every how. Such, Eliza, I ^vrite to thee! " 
(The artless rogue, of course he did!) "And 
so I should ever love thee, most artlessly, most 
affectionately, if Providence permitted thy resi- 
dence in the same section of the globe: for 
I am aU that honour and affection can make 
me 'Thy Bramin.' " 

The Bramin continues addressing Mrs. 
Draper until the departure of the Earl of 
Chatham Indiaman from Deal, on the 3rd of 
April 1767. He is amiably anxious about the 
fresh paint for Eliza's cabin ; he is micom- 
monly solicitous about her companions on 
board : — 

"I fear the best of your shipmates are only 
genteel by comparison with the contrasted 
crew with which thou beholdest them. So 
was — you know who — from the same fal- 
lacy which was put tipon your judgment when 
— but I will not mortify you!" 

"You know who" was, of course, Daniel 
Draper, Esquire, of Bombay — a gentleman 
very much respected in that quarter of the 
globe, and about whose probable health our 
worthy Bramin writes with delightful candour : 

"I honour you, Eliza, for keeping secret 
some things which, if explained, had been a 
panegyric on yourself. There is a dignity in 
venerable affliction which will not allow it to 
appeal to the world for pity or redress. Well 
have you supported that character, my ami- 
able, my philosophic friend! And, indeed, I 
begin to think you have as many virtues as my 



Uncle Toby's widow. Talking of widows — 
pray, Eliza, if ever you are such, do not think 
of giving yourself to some wealthy Nabob, 
because I design to marry you myself. My 
wife cannot five long, and I know not the 
woman I should hke so well for her substitute 
as yourself. 'Tis true I am ninety-five in con- 
stitution, and you but twenty-five ; but what 
I want in youth, I will make up in wit and 
good-humour. Not Swift so loved his Stella, 
Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his Saccha- 
rissa. Tell me, in answer to this, that you ap- 
prove and honour the proposal." 

Approve and honour the proposal ! The 
coward was writing gay letters to his friends 
this while, with sneering allusions to this poor 
foolish Bramine} Her ship was not out of the 
Downs and the charming Sterne was at the 
"Mount Coffee-house," with a sheet of gilt- 
edged paper before him, offering that precious 

treasure his heart to Lady P , asking 

whether it gave her pleasure to see him un- 
happy ? whether it added to her triumph that 
her eyes and lips had turned a man into a fool ? 
— quoting the Lord's Prayer, with a horrible 
baseness of blasphemy, as a proof that he had 
desired not to be led into temptation, and 
swearing himself the most tender and sincere 
fool in the world. It was from his home at 
Coxwold, that he wrote the Latin Letter, 
which, I suppose, he was ashamed to put into 
English. I find in my copy of the Letters that 
there is a note of, I can't call it admiration, 
at Letter 112, which seems to announce that 
there was a No. 3 to whom the wretched worn- 
out old scamp was paymg his addresses ; and 
the year after, having come back to his lodg- 
ings in Bond Street, with his "Sentimental 
Journey" to launch upon the to\Mi, eager as 
ever for praise and pleasure — as vain, as 
wicked, as witty, as false as he had ever been, 
death at length seized the feeble wretch, and 
on the i8th of JMarch 1 768, that " bale of cadav- 
erous goods," as he calls his bod}'', was con- 
signed to Pluto. In his last letter there is 
one sign of grace — the real aft'ection with 
which he entreats a friend to be a guardian to 
his daughter Lydia. All his letters to her are 
artless, kind, affectionate, and not sentimen- 
tal; as a hundred pages in his writings are 
beautiful, and full, not of surprising humour 
merely, but of genuine love and kindness. A 
perilous trade, indeed, is that of a man who 

^ feminine of Brahmin (invented by Sterne) 



576 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 



has to bring his tears and laughter, his recol- 
lections, his personal griefs and joys, his 
private thoughts and feelings to market, to 
write them on paper, and sell them for money. 
Does he exaggerate his grief, so as to get his 
reader's pity for a false sensibility? feign in- 
dignation, so as to establish a character for 
virtue? elaborate repartees, so that he may 
pass for a wit ? steal from other authors, and 
put down the theft to the credit side of his 
own reputation for ingenuity and learning? 
feign originality? affect benevolence or mis- 
anthropy? appeal to the gallery gods with 
claptraps and vulgar baits to catch applause ? 
How much of the pain and emphasis is 
necessary for the fair business of the stage, 
and how much of the rant and rouge is put on 
for the vanity of the actor? His audience 
trusts him : can he trust himself ? How much 
was deliberate calculation and imposture — 
how much was false sensibility — and how 
much true feeling? Where did the lie begin, 
and did he know where? and where did the 
truth end in the art and scheme of this man 
of genius, this actor, this quack? Some time 
since, I was in the company of a French actor 
who began after dinner, and at his own re- 
quest, to sing French songs of the sort called 
des chansons grivoises,^ and which he performed 
admirably, and to the dissatisfaction of most 
persons present. Having finished these, he 
commenced a sentimental ballad — it was so 
charmingly sung that it touched all persons 
present, and especially the singer himself, 
whose voice trembled, whose eyes filled with 
emotion, and who was snivelling and weeping 
quite genuine tears by the time his own ditty 
was over. I suppose Sterne had this artistical 
sensibility ; he used to blubber perpetually in 
his study, and iinding his tears infectious, 
and that they brought him a great popu- 
larity, he exercised the lucrative gift of weep- 
ing : he utilised it, and cried on every occasion. 
I own that I don't value or respect much the 
cheap dribble of those fountains. He fatigues 
me with his perpetual disquiet and his imeasy 
appeals to my risible or sentimental faculties. 
He is always looking in my face, watching his 
effect, uncertain whether I think him an im- 
postor or not ; posture-making, coaxing, and 
imploring me. "See what sensibility I have 
— own now that I'm very clever — do cry 
now, you can't resist this." The humour of 

^ indecent songs 



Swift and Rabelais, whom he pretended to 
succeed, poured from them as naturally as 
song does from a bird; they lose no manly 
dignity with it, but laugh their hearty great 
laugh out of their broad chests as nature bade 
them. But this man — ■ who can make you 
laugh, who can make you cry too — never lets 
his reader alone, or will permit his audience 
repose : when you are quiet, he fancies he 
must rouse you, and turns over head and heels, 
or sidles up and whispers a nasty story. The 
man is a great jester, not a great humourist. 
He goes to work systematically and of cold 
blood; paints his face, puts on his ruff and 
motley clothes, and lays down his carpet and 
tumbles on it. 

For instance, take the "Sentimental Jour- 
ney," and see in the writer the deliberate pro- 
pensity to make points and seek applause. 
He gets to "Dessein's Hotel," he wants a car- 
riage to travel to Paris, he goes to the inn- 
yard, and begins what the actors caU "busi- 
ness" at once. There is that little carriage 
(the desohligeante ^) . 

"Four months had elapsed since it had 
finished its career of Europe in the corner of 
Monsieur Dessein's coach-yard, and having 
sallied out thence but a vamped-up business 
at first, though it had been twice taken to 
pieces on Mont Cenis, it had not profited 
much by its adventures, but by none so little 
as the standing so many months unpitied in 
the corner of Monsieur Dessein's coach-yard. 
Much, indeed, was not to be said for it — but 
something might — - and when a few words wUl 
rescue misery out of her distress, I hate the 
man who can be a churl of them." 

Le tour est fait ! ^ PaiUasse ^ has tmnbled ! 
Paillasse has jumped over the desobligcante , 
cleared it, hood and all, and bows to the noble 
company. Does anybody believe that this is 
a real Sentiment? that this luxury of gener- 
osity, this gallant rescue of Misery — out of an 
old cab, is genuine feeling? It is as genuine 
as the virtuous oratory of Joseph Surface * when 
he begins, "The man who," etc., etc., and 
wishes to pass off for a saint with his credu- 
lous, good-humoured dupes. 

Our friend purchases the carriage : after 
turning that notorious old monk to good ac- 

^ the disobliging (because it seated only one 
person) ^ "The trick has been done." ^ the 
clown ^ the hypocrite in Sheridan's School for 
Scandal 



THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS 



577 



count, and effecting (like a soft and good- 
natured Paillasse as he was, and very free with 
his money when he had it) an exchange of 
snuff-boxes with the old Franciscan, jogs out 
of Calais ; sets down in immense figures on the 
credit side of his account the sous he gives 
away to the JMontreuil beggars ; and, at Nam- 
pont, gets out of the chaise and whimpers over 
that famous dead donkey, for which any sen- 
timentalist may cry who will. It is agreeably 
and skilfully done — that dead jackass : like 
Monsieur de Soubise's^ cook on the campaign, 
Sterne dresses it, and serves it up quite tender 
and with a very piquant sauce. But tears and 
fine feelings, and a white pocket-handkerchief, 
and funeral sermon, and horses and feathers, 
and a procession of mutes," and a hearse with 
a dead donkey inside ! Psha, mountebank ! 
I'll not give thee one penny more for that 
trick, donkey and all ! 

This donkey had appeared once before with 
signal eft"ect. In 1765, three years before the 
publication of the "Sentimental Journey," 
the seventh and eighth volumes of "Tristram 
Shandy" were given to the world, and the 
famous Lyons donkey makes his entry in those 
volumes (pp. 315, 316) : — 

" 'Twas by a poor ass, with a couple of large 
panniers at his back, who had just turned in 
to collect eleemosynary turnip-tops and cab- 
bage-leaves, and stood dubious, with his two 
forefeet at the inside of the threshold, and with 
his two hinder feet towards the street, as not 
knowing very well whether he was to go in or 
no. 

"Now 'tis an animal (be in what hurry I 
may) I cannot bear to strike: there is a 
patient endurance of suffering wrote so un- 
affectedly in his looks and carriage which 
pleads so mightily for him, that it always dis- 
arms me, and to that degree that I do not lilie 
to speak unkindly to him : on the contrary, 
meet him where I will, whether in town or 
country, in cart or under panniers, whether in 
liberty or bondage, I have ever something civil 
to say to him on my part ; and, as one word 
begets another (if he has as little to do as I), 
I generally fall into conversation with him ; 
and surely never is my imagination so busy as 
in framing responses from the etchings of his 

^ The Prince dc Soubise, defeated in the decisive 
battle of Rossbach, regarded a good cook as 
more essential to a general than any other official. 
' hired mourners 



countenance ; and where those carry me not 
deep enough, in flying from my own heart 
into his, and seeing what is natural for an ass 
to think — as well as a man, upon the occa- 
sion. In truth, it is the only creature of all 
the classes of beings below me with whom 1 
can do this. . . . With an ass I can commune 
forever. 

"'Come, Honesty,' said I, seeing it was im- 
practicable to pass betwixt him and the gate, 
' art thou for coming in or going out ? ' 

"The ass twisted his head round to look up 
the street. 

" ' Well ! ' replied I, ' we'U wait a minute for 
thy driver.' 

"He turned his head thoughtfully about, 
and looked wistfully the opposite way. 

" 'I understand thee perfectly,' answered I : 
'if thou takest a wrong step in this affair, he 
will cudgel thee to death. Well ! a minute is 
but a minute ; and if it saves a fellow-creature 
a drubbing, it shall not be set down as ill spent.' 

"He was eating the stem of an artichoke 
as this discourse went on, and, in the little 
peevish contentions between hunger and un- 
savouriness, had dropped it out of his mouth 
half-a-dozen times, and had picked it up again. 
'God help thee. Jack!' said I, 'thou hast a 
bitter breakfast on't — and many a bitter 
day's labour, and many a bitter blow, I fear, 
for its wages ! 'Tis all, all bitterness to thee 
— whatever life is to others ! And now thy 
mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter, 
I dare say, as soot' (for he had cast aside the 
stem) , ' and thou hast not a friend perhaps in 
all this world that will give thee a macaroon.' 
In saying this, I pulled out a paper of 'em, 
which I had just bought, and gave him one; 
and at this moment that I am telling it, my 
heart- smites me that there was more of 
pleasantry in the conceit of seeing how an ass 
would eat a macaroon than of benevolence in 
giving him one, which presided in the act. 

"When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I 
pressed hun to come in. The poor beast was 
heavy loaded — his legs seemed to tremble 
under him — he hung rather backwards, and, 
as I pulled at his halter, it broke in my hand. 
He looked up pensive in my face: 'Don't 
thrash me with it ; but if you will you may.' 
'If I do,' said I, 'I'll bed—.'" 

A critic who refuses to see in this charming 
description wit, humour, pathos, a kind nature 
speaking, and a real sentiment, must be hard 
indeed to move and to please. A page or two 



578 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 



farther we come to a description not less beau- 
tiful — a landscape and figures, deliciously 
painted by one who had the keenest enjoy- 
ment and the most tremulous sensibility : — 

'"Twas in the road between Nismes and 
Lunel/ where is the best Muscatto wine ^ in all 
France : the sun was set, they had done their 
work : the nymphs had tied up their hair 
afresh, and the swains were preparing for a 
carousal. My mule made a dead point.^ 
"Tis the pipe and tambourine,' said I — 'I 
never will argue a point with one of your 
family as long as I live ;' so leaping oE his 
back, and kicking off one boot into this ditch 
and t'other into that, 'I'll take a dance/ said 
I, 'so stay you here.' 

"A sunburnt daughter of labour rose up 
from the group to meet me as I advanced 
towards them ; her hair, which was of a dark 
chestnut approaching to a black, was tied up 
in a knot, all but a single tress. 

" ' We want a cavalier,' said she, holding out 
both her hands, as if to offer them. 'And a 
cavalier you shall have,' said I, taking hold 
of both of them. 'We coiild not have done 
without you,' said she, letting go one hand, 
with self-taught politeness, and leading me up 
with the other. 

"A lame youth, whom Apollo had recom- 
pensed with a pipe, and to which he had added 
a tambourine of his own accord, ran sweetly 
over the prelude, as he sat upon the bank. 
'Tie me up this tress instantly,' said Nannette, 
putting a piece of string into my hand. It 
taught me to forget I was a stranger. The 
whole knot fell down — • we had been seven 
years acquainted. The youth struck the note 
upon the tambourine, his pipe followed, and 
off we bounded. 

"The sister of the youth — who had stolen 
her voice from heaven — sang alternately with 
her brother. 'Twas a Gascoigne roundelay : 
' Viva la joia, fidon la tristessa.' * The nymphs 
joined in unison, and their swains an octave 
below them. 

"Viva la joia was in Nannette's lips, viva 
la joia in her eyes. A transient spark of amity 
shot across the space betwixt us. She looked 
amiable. Why could I not live and end my 
days thus? 'Just Disposer of our joys and 
sorrows ! ' cried I, ' why could not a man sit 

^ in Provence, where such scenes are charac- 
teristic - muscatel wine ^ stopped like a pointer 
dog * "Long live joy, down with sadness." 



down in the lap of content here, and dance, 
and sing, and say his prayers, and go to heaven 
with this nut-brown maid ? ' Capriciously did 
she bend her head on one side, and dance up 
insidious. ' Then 'tis time to dance off,' quoth 
L" 

And with this pretty dance and chorus, the 
volume artfully concludes. Even here one 
can't give the whole description. There is not 
a page in Sterne's writing but has something 
that were better away, a latent corruption - — 
a hint, as of an impure presence. 

Some of that dreary double entendre ^ may be 
attributed to freer times and manners than 
ours, but not all. The foul satyr's e3^es leer 
out of the leaves constantly : the last words 
the famous author wrote were bad and wicked 
— ■ the last lines the poor stricken wretch 
penned were for pity and pardon. I think of 
these past writers and of one who lives 
amongst us now, and am grateful for the in- 
nocent laughter and the sweet and unsullied 
page which the author of " David Copperlield " 
gives to my children. 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 

(1819-1861) 

QUA CURSUM VENTUS2 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side. 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 4 

When fell the night, upsprxmg the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied. 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side: 8 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those, Vv^hom year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
Astoimded, sotd from soul estranged ? 12 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 15 

Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 

^ "double meaning," suggesting an indecent 
idea " Whithersoever the wind directs the course. 



EASTER DAY 



579 



To veer, how vaiii ! On, onward strain. 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too. 

Through winds and tides one compass 
guides — ■ 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 20 

But O blithe breeze ; and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past. 

On your wide plain they join again. 

Together lead them home at last. 24 

One port, methought, alike they sought. 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 

At last, at last, unite them there ! 28 



^VITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, 
NEITHER SHADOW OF TURNING 1 

It fortifies my soul to know 
That, though I perish. Truth is so : 
That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
Whate'er I do. Thou dost not change. 
I steadier step when I recall 
That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall. 



EASTER DAY 



Naples, 1849 

Through the great sinful streets of Naples as 
I past, 
With fiercer heat than flamed above my 
head 
My heart was hot within me ; tiU at last 
My brain was lightened when my tongue 
had said — 
Christ is not risen ! 5 

Christ is not risen, no — 
He lies and moulders low ; 
Christ is not risen ! 

What though the stone were rolled away, and 
though 

The grave found empty there? — 10 

If not there, then elsewhere ; 
If not where Joseph laid Him first, why then 

WTiere other men 



Translaid Him after, in some humbler clay. 

Long ere to-day 15 

Corruption that sad perfect work hath done, 
Which here she scarcely, lightly had begun : 

The foul engendered worm 
Feeds on the flesh of the life-giving form 
Of our most Holy and Anointed One. 20 

He is not risen, no — 

He lies and moulders low ; 
Christ is not risen. 

What if the women, ere the dawn was grey. 
Saw one or more great angels, as they say 25 
(Angels, or Him himself) ? Yet neither there, 

nor then, 
Nor afterwards, nor elsewhere, nor at all. 
Hath He appeared to Peter or the Ten ; ^ 
Nor, save in thunderous terror, to blind Saul ; 
Save in an after Gospel and late Creed, 30 
tie is not risen, indeed, — 
Christ is not risen ! 

Or, what if e'en, as runs a tale, the Ten 
Saw, heard, and touched, again and yet 

again ? 
What if at Emmaiis' inn, and by Capernaum's 
Lake, 
Came One, the bread that brake — 36 
Came One that spake as never mortal spake. 
And with them ate, and drank, and stood, and 
walked about? 
Ah, "some" did well to "doubt"! - 
Ah ! the true Christ, whfle these things came 
to pass, 40 

Nor heard, nor spake, nor walked, nor lived, 
alas ! ^ 

He was not risen, no — 
He lay and mouldered low, 
Christ was not risen ! 



As circulates in some great city crowd 45 
A rumour changeful, vague, importunate, and 

loud, 
From no determined centre, or of fact 
Or authorship exact, 
Which no man can deny 

Nor verify ; 50 

So spread the wondrous fame; 
He all the same 

Lay senseless, mouldering, low : 
He was not risen, no — 

Christ was not risen. 55 



}■ Jatnes i : 17 



^ apostles 



' cf. Matt, xxviii : 17 



58o 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 



Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 

As of the unjust, also of the just — 

Yea, of that Just One, too ! 
This is the one sad Gospel that is true — 
Christ is not risen ! 



60 



Is He not risen, and shall we not rise ? 

Oh, we unwise ! 
What did we dream, what wake we to dis- 
cover ? 
Ye hills, fall on us, and ye mountains, cover ! 
In darkness and great gloom 65 

Come ere we thought it is our day of doom ; 
From the cursed world, which is one tomb, 
Christ is not risen ! 

Eat, drink, and play, and think that this is 

bliss : 
There is no heaven but this ; 70 

There is no hell, 
Save earth, which serves the purpose doubly 
well. 
Seeing it visits still 
With equalest apportionment of Ul 
Both good and bad alike, and brings to one 
same dust 75 

The unjust and the just 
With Christ, who is not risen. 

Eat, drink, and die, for we are souls bereaved : 
Of all the creatures under heaven's wide 

cope 
We are most hopeless, who had once most 
hope, 
And most beliefless, that had most believed. 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 82 

As of the imjust, also of the just — 

Yea, of that Just One too ! 
It is the one sad Gospel that is true — 
Christ is not risen ! 86 

Weep not beside the tomb, 
Ye women, unto whom 
He was great solace while ye tended Him ; 
Ye who with napkin o'er the head 90 
And folds of linen round each wounded limb 
Laid out the Sacred Dead ; 
And thou that bar'st Him in thy wondering 

womb ; 
Yea, Daughters of Jerusalem, depart. 
Bind up as best ye may your own sad bleed- 
ing heart : 95 
Go to your homes, your living children tend. 
Your earthly spouses love ; 
Set your affections not on things above. 



Which moth and rust corrupt, which quickliest 

come to end : 
Or pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if pray ye 
can, 100 

For death ; since dead is He whom ye deemed 
more than man. 
Who is not risen : no — 
But lies and moulders low — 
Who is not risen. 

Ye men of Galilee ! 105 

Why stand ye looking up to heaven, where 

Him ye ne'er may see. 
Neither ascending hence, nor returning hither 



again 



Ye ignorant and idle fishermen ! 
Hence to your huts, and boats, and inland 
native shore. 
And catch not men, but fish ; no 

Whate'er things ye might wish. 
Him neither here nor there ye e'er shall meet 
with more. 
Ye poor deluded youths, go home. 
Mend the old nets ye left to roam. 
Tie the split oar, patch the torn sail : 115 
It was indeed an "idle tale" — 
He was not risen ! 

And, oh, good men of ages yet to be, 
Who shall believe because ye did not see — 
Oh, be ye warned, be wise ! 1 20 

No more with pleading eyes. 
And sobs of strong desire. 
Unto the empty vacant void aspire, 
Seeking another and impossible birth 
That is not of your own, and only mother 
earth. 125 

But if there is no other life for you. 
Sit down and be content, since this must even 
do: 
He is not risen ! 

One look, and then depart, 
Ye humble and ye holy men of heart ; 130 
And ye ! ye ministers and stewards of a Word 
Which ye would preach, because another 
heard — 
Ye worshippers of that ye do not know, 
Take these things hence and go : — 
He is not risen ! 13s 

Here, on our Easter Day 
We rise, we come, and lo ! we find Him not, 
Gardener nor other, on the sacred spot : 
Where they have laid Him there is none to say ; 



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 



581 



No sound, nor in, nor out — no word 140 
Of where to seek the dead or meet the Hvmg 

Lord. 
There is no glistering of an angel's wings. 
There is no voice of heavenly clear behest : 
Let us go hence, and think upon these things 

In silence, which is best. 145 

Is He not risen ? No — 

But lies and moulders low ? 
Christ is not risen? 



For all that breathe beneath the heaven's high 

cope, 
Joy with grief mixes, with despondence hope. 
Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief : 
Or at least, faith unbelief. 

Though dead, not dead ; 

Not gone, though fled ; 

Not lost, though vanished. 

In the great gospel and true creed, 

He is yet risen indeed ; 40 

Christ is yet risen. 



EASTER DAY 



II 



So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone, 
I with my secret self held communing of mine 
own. 
So in the southern city spake the tongue 
Of one that somewhat overwildly sung. 
But in a later hour I sat and heard 
Another voice that spake — • another graver 

word. 
Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been said, 
Though He be dead. He is not dead. 
Iia the true creed 

He is yet risen indeed; 10 

Christ is yet risen. 

Weep not beside His tomb, 

Ye women unto whom 

He was great comfort and yet greater grief ; 

Nor ye, ye faithful few that wont with Him 

to roam. 
Seek sadly what for Him ye left, go hopeless to 

your home ; 
Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of their 
belief ; 
Though He be dead. He is not dead, 
Nor gone, though fled, 
Not lost, though vanished; 20 

Though He return not, though 
He lies and moulders low ; 
In the true creed 
He is yet risen indeed ; 
Christ is yet risen. 

Sit if ye will, sit down upon the ground, 
Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly look 
around. 

Whate'er befell. 

Earth is not hell ; 
Now, too, as when it first began, 30 

Life is yet life, and man is man. 



"PERCHE PENSA? PENSANDO 
S'lNVECCHIA"! 

To spend uncounted years of pain, 

Again, again, and yet again, 

In working out in heart and brain 

The problem of our being here ; 
To gather facts from far and near, 
Upon the mind to hold them clear, 
And, knowing more may yet appear, 
Unto one's latest breath to fear, 
The premature result to draw — 
Is this the object, end, and law, 

And purpose of our being here ? 



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say not the struggle nought availeth. 
The labour and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 

And as things have been they remain. 4 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed. 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. 

And, but for you, possess the field. 8 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking. 
Seem here no painfid inch to gain, 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 12 

And not by eastern windows only. 

When daylight comes, comes in the light, 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly. 
But westward, look, the land is bright. 16 

^ " Why think ? By thinking one grows old " 



582 



JOHN RUSKIN 



JOHN RUSKIN (1819-1900) 

THE STONES OF VENICE 

VOL. II. CHAP. IV. 

St. Mark's 

§ X. And now I wish that the reader, be- 
fore I bring him into St. Mark's Place, would 
imagine himself for a Httle time in a quiet 
English cathedral town, and walk, with me to 
the west front of its cathedral. Let us go 
together up the more retired street, at the end 
of which we can see the pinnacles of one of 
the towers, and then through the low gray 
gateway, with its battlemented top and small 
latticed window in the centre, into the inner 
private-looking road or close, where nothing 
goes in but the carts of the tradesmen who 
supply the bishop and the chapter, and where 
there are little shaven grass-plots, fenced in 
by neat rails, before old-fashioned groups of 
somewhat diminutive and excessively trim 
houses, with little oriel and bay windows 
jutting out here and there, and deep wooden 
cornices and eaves painted cream colour and 
white, and small porches to their doors in the 
shape of cockle-sheUs, or little, crooked, thick, 
indescribable wooden gables warped a little 
on one side ; and so forward till we come to 
larger houses, also old-fashioned, but of red 
brick, and with gardens behind them, and 
fruit walls, which shovv^ here and there, among 
the nectarines, the vestiges of an old cloister 
arch or shaft, and looking in front on the 
cathedral square itself, laid out in rigid divi- 
sions of smooth grass and gravel walk, yet not 
uncheerful, especially on the sunny side where 
the canons' children are walking with their 
nurserymaids. And so, taking care not to 
tread on the grass, we will go along the 
straight walk to the west front, and there 
stand for a time, looking up at its deep- 
pointed porches and the dark places between 
their pillars where there were statues once, 
and where the fragments, here and there, of a 
stately figure are still left, which has in it 
the likeness of a king, perhaps indeed a king 
on earth, perhaps a saintly king long ago in 
heaven ; and so, higher and higher up to the 
great mouldering wall of rugged sculpture 
and confused arcades, shattered, and gray, 
and grisly with heads of dragons and mocking 
fiends, worn by the rain and swirling winds 



into yet unseemlier shape, and coloured on 
their stony scales by the deep russet-orange 
lichen, melancholy gold ; and so, higher still, 
to the bleak towers, so far above that the 
eye loses itself among the bosses of their 
traceries, though they are rude and strong, 
and only sees, like a drift of eddying black 
points, now closing, now scattering, and now 
settling suddenly into invisible places among 
the bosses and flowers, the crowd of rest- 
less birds that fill the whole square with that 
strange clangour of theirs, so harsh and yet 
so soothing, like the cries of birds on a soli- 
tary coast between the cliffs and sea. 

§ XL Think for a little while of that scene, 
and the meaning of all its small formalisms, 
mixed with its serene sublimity. Estimate its 
secluded, continuous, drowsy felicities, and 
its evidence of the sense and steady perform- 
ance of such kind of duties as can be regu- 
lated by the cathedral clock ; and weigh the 
influence of those dark towers on all who have 
passed through the lonely square at their feet 
for centuries, and on all who have seen them 
rising far away over the wooded plain, or 
catching on their square masses the last rays 
of the sunset, when the city at their feet was 
indicated only by the mist at the bend of the 
river. And then let us quickly recollect that 
we are in Venice, and land at the extremity of 
the Calle Lunga San Moise, which may be 
considered as there answering to the secluded 
street that led us to our English cathedral 
gateway. 

§ XII. We find ourselves in a paved alley, 
some seven feet wide where it is widest, fuU 
of people, and resonant with cries of itinerant 
salesmen — a shriek in their beginning, and 
dying away into a kind of brazen rmging, all 
the worse for its confinement between the high 
houses of the passage along which we have 
to make our way. Over-head an inextricable 
confusion of rugged shutters, and iron balco- 
nies and chunney flues pushed out on brackets 
to save room, and arched windows with pro- 
jecting sills of Istrian stone, and gleams of 
green leaves here and there where a fig-tree 
branch escapes over a lower waU from some 
inner cortile,^ leading the eye up to the narrow 
stream of blue sky high over all. On each 
side, a row of shops, as densely set as may 
be, occupying, in fact, intervals between the 
square stone shafts, about eight feet high, 

* courtyard 



THE STONES OF VENICE 



583 



which carry the first floors : intervals of which 
one is narrow and serves as a door ; the other 
is, in the more respectable shops, wainscotted 
to the height of the counter and glazed above, 
but in those of the poorer tradesmen left open 
to the ground, and the wares laid on benches 
and tables in the open air, the light in all 
cases entering at the front only, and fading 
away in a few feet from the threshold into a 
gloom which the eye from without cannot 
penetrate, but which is generally broken by a 
ray or two from a feeble lamp at the back 
of the shop, suspended before a print of the 
Virgin. The less pious shopkeeper sometimes 
leaves his lamp unlighted, and is contented 
with a penny print ; the more religious one has 
his print coloured and set in a little shrine with 
a gilded or figured fringe, with perhaps a 
faded flower or two on each side, and his 
lamp burning brilliantly. Here at the fruit- 
erer's, where the dark-green water-melons are 
heaped upon the counter like cannon balls, 
the Madonna has a tabernacle of fresh laurel 
leaves ; but the pewterer next door has let 
his lamp out, and there is nothing to be seen 
in his shop but the dull gleam of the studded 
patterns on the copper pans, hanging from 
his roof in the darkness. Next comes a 
"Vendita Frittole e Liquori,"^ where the 
Virgin, enthroned in a very humble manner 
beside a tallow candle on a back shelf, pre- 
sides over certain ambrosial morsels of a 
nature too ambiguous to be defined or enu- 
merated. But a few steps farther on, at the 
regular wine-shop of the calle,- where we are 
offered "Vino Nostrani a Soldi 28.32,"^ the 
Madonna is in great glory, enthroned above 
ten or a dozen large red casks of three-year- 
old vintage, and flanked by goodly ranks of 
bottles of Maraschino, and two crimson lamps; 
and for the evening, when the gondoliers will 
come to drink out, under her auspices, the 
money they have gained during the day, she 
will have a whole chandelier. 

§ XIII. A yard or two farther, we pass the 
hostelry of the Black Eagle, and, glancing as 
we pass through the square door of marble, 
deeply moulded, in the outer wall, we see the 
shadows of its pergola of vines resting on an 
ancient well, with a pointed shield carved on 
Its side ; and so presently emerge on the bridge 
and Campo San Moise, whence to the en- 

^ shop for cakes and drinks ^ street ' wine 
of the district at 28.32 pence 



trance into St. Mark's Place, called the Bocca 
di Piazza (mouth of the square), the Vene- 
tian character is nearly destroyed, first by the 
frightful fagade of San Moise, which we will 
pause at another time to examine, and then 
by the modernising of the shops as they near 
the piazza, and the mingling with the lower 
Venetian popiflace of lounging groups of Eng- 
lish and Austrians.^ We will push fast through 
them into the shadow of the pillars at the end 
of the "Bocca di Piazza," and then we forget 
them all ; for between those pillars there opens 
a great light, and, in the midst of it, as we 
advance slowly, the vast tower of St. Mark 
seems to lift itself visibly forth from the level 
field of chequered stones; and, on each side,- 
the countless arches prolong themselves into 
ranged symmetry, as if the rugged and irregu- 
lar houses that pressed together above us in 
the dark alley had been struck back into 
sudden obedience and lovely order, and all 
their rude casements and broken walls had 
been transformed into arches charged with 
goodly sculpture, and fluted shafts of delicate 
stone. 

§ XIV. And well may they fall back, for 
beyond those troops of ordered arches there 
rises a vision out of the earth, and all the great 
square seems to have opened from it in a 
kind of awe, that we may see it far away — a 
multitude of pillars and white domes, clustered 
into a long low pyramid of coloured light ; a 
treasure-heap, it seems, partly of gold, and 
partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed 
beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled 
with fair mosaic, and beset with sculpture of 
alabaster, clear as amber and delicate as 
ivory — sculpture fantastic and involved, of 
palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pome- 
granates, and birds clinging and fluttering 
among the branches, all twined together into 
an endless network of buds and plumes ; and, 
in the midst of it, the solemn forms of angels, 
sceptred, and robed to the feet, and leaning to 
each other across the gates, their figures in- 
distinct among the gleaming of the golden 
ground through the leaves beside them, inter- 
rupted and dim, like the morning light as it 
faded back among the branches of Eden, 
when first its gates were angel-guarded long 
ago. And round the walls of the porches 
there are set pillars of variegated stones, 

^ At the time Rusiiin was writing Venice 
belonged to Austria. 



584 



JOHN RUSKIN 



jasper and porphyry, and deep-green serpen- 
tine spotted with flakes of snow, and marbles, 
that half refuse and half yield to the sunshine, 
Cleopatra-like, " their bluest veins to kiss "^ — 
the shadow, as it steals back from them, re- 
vealing line after line of azure undulation, as 
a receding tide leaves the waved sand ; their 
capitals rich with interwoven tracery, rooted 
knots of herbage, and drifting leaves of acan- 
thus and vine, and mystical signs, all begin- 
ning and ending in the Cross ; and above 
them, in the broad archive Its, a continuous 
chain of language and of life — angels, and 
the signs of heaven, and the labours of men, 
each in its appointed season upon the earth ; 
and above these, another range of glittering 
pinnacles, mixed with white arches edged with 
scarlet flowers — a confusion of delight, 
amidst which the breasts of the Greek horses 
are seen blazing in their breadth of golden 
strength, and the St. Mark's Lion, lifted on a 
blue field covered with stars, imtil at last, as 
if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break 
into a marble foam, and toss themselves far 
into the blue sky in flashes and wreaths of 
sculptured spray, as if the breakers on the 
Lido ^ shore had been frost-bound before they 
fell, and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with 
coral and amethyst. 

Between that grim cathedral of England 
and this, what an interval ! There is a type 
of it in the very birds that haunt them ; for, 
instead of the restless crowd, hoarse- voiced 
and sable-winged, drifting on the bleak upper 
air, the St. Mark's porches are full of doves, 
that nestle among the marble foliage, and 
mingle the soft iridescence of their living 
plumes, changing at every motion, with the 
tints, hardly less lovely, that have stood un- 
changed for seven hundred years. 

§ XV. And what effect has this splendour 
on those who pass beneath it? You may 
walk from sunrise to sunset, to and fro, before 
the gateway of St. Mark's, and you will not 
see an eye lifted to it, nor a countenance 
brightened by it. Priest and layman, soldier 
and civilian, rich and poor, pass by it alike 
regardlessly. Up to the very recesses of the 
porches, the meanest tradesmen of the city 
push their counters ; nay, the foundations of 
its pillars are themselves the seats — not "of 

^ of. Ant. and Cleo., II, v, 29 ^ a stretch of 
sandy islets separating the Lagoon of Venice 
from the Gulf of Venice 



them that sell doves "^ for sacrifice, but of the 
vendors of toys and caricatures. Round the 
whole square in front of the church there is 
almost a continuous line of cafes, where the 
idle Venetians of the middle classes lounge, 
and read empty journals ; in its centre the 
Austrian bands play during the time of ves- 
pers, their martial music jarring with the 
organ notes — the march drowning the 
miserere, and the sullen crowd thickening 
round them — a crowd, which, if it had its 
will, would stiletto every soldier that pipes to 
it. And in the recesses of the porches, all 
day long, knots of men of the lowest classes, 
unemployed and listless, lie basking in the 
sun like lizards ; and unregarded children — 
every heavy glance of their young eyes full 
of desperation and stony depravity, and their 
throats hoarse with cursing — gamble, and 
fight, and snarl, and sleep, hour after hour, 
clashing their bruised centesimi^ upon the 
m.arble ledges of the church porch. And the 
images of Christ and His angels look down 
upon it continually. 



From THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE 

PREFACE 

Twenty years ago, there was no lovelier 
piece of lowland scenery in South England, 
nor any more pathetic in the world, by its 
expression of sweet human character and life, 
than that immediately bordering on the 
sources of the Wandle,^ and including the lower 
moors of Addington, and the villages of Bed- 
dington and Carshalton, with all their pools 
and streams. No clearer or diviner waters 
ever sang with constant lips of the hand which 
"giveth rain from heaven" ; ^ no pastures ever 
lightened in spring time with more passionate 
blossoming ; no sweeter homes ever hallowed 
the heart of the passer-by with their pride of 
peaceful gladness — fam-hidden — yet full- 
confessed. The place remains, or, until a few 
months ago, remained, nearly unchanged in 
its larger features ; but, with deliberate mind 
I say, that I have never seen anything so 
ghastly in its inner tragic meaning, — not in 

1 cf. Matt, xxi : 12, Afark xi : 15 - coins worth 
about one-fifth of a cent ^ a river that rises 
in Surrey a few roiles south of London ■* cf. 
Job V : 10 



THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE 



585 



Pisan Maremma/ — not by Campagna- tomb, 

— not by the sand-isles of the Torcellan shore,^ 

— as the slow stealing of aspects of reckless, 
indolent, animal neglect, over the delicate 
sweetness of that English scene : nor is any 
blasphemy or impiety — any frantic saying 
or godless thought — more appalling to me, 
using the best power of judgment I have to 
discern its sense and scope, than the insolent 
delilings of those springs by the human herds 
that drink of them. Just where the welling 
of stainless water, trembling and pure, like a 
body of light, enters the pool of Carshalton, 
cutting itself a radiant channel down to the 
gravel, through warp of feathery weeds, all 
waving, which it traverses with its deep 
threads of clearness, like the chalcedony in 
moss-agate, starred here and there with white 
grenouiilette ;'' just in the very rush and mur- 
mur of the first spreading currents, the human 
wretches of the place cast their street and 
house foulness ; heaps of dust and slime, and 
broken shreds of old metal, and rags of putrid 
clothes ; they having neither energy to cart it 
away, nor decency enough to dig it into the 
ground, thus shed into the stream, to diffuse 
what venom of it will float and melt, far away, 
in all places where God meant those waters 
to bring joy and health. And, in a little pool, 
behind some houses farther in the village, 
where another spring rise's, the shattered 
stones of the well, and of the little fretted 
channel which was long ago built and traced 
for it by gentler hands, lie scattered, each 
from each, under a ragged bank of mortar, 
and scoria;^ and bricklayers' refuse, on one 
side, which the clean water nevertheless 
chastises to purity ; but it cannot conquer 
the dead earth beyond ; and there, circled 
and coiled under festering scum, the stagnant 
edge of the pool effaces itself into a slope of 
black slime, the accumulation of indolent 
years. Half-a-dozen men, with one day's 
work, could cleanse those pools, and trim the 
flowers about their banks, and make every 
breath of summer air above them rich with 
cool balm ; and every glittering wave medi- 
cinal, as if it ran, troubled of angels, from 
the porch of Bethesda.® But that day's 
work is never given, nor will be ; nor will 
any jo}^ be possible to heart of man, for 

^ a desolate marsh near Pisa - a plain near 
Rome ' near Venice ■* water crowfoot ^ slag 
'' cf. John V : 2-4 



evermore, about those wells of English 
waters. 

When I last left them, I walked up slowly 
through the back streets of Croydon,^ from the 
old church to the hospital ; and, just on the 
left, before coming up to the crossing of the 
High Street, there was a new public-house 
built. And the front of it was buUt in so wise 
manner, that a recess of two feet was left be- 
low its front windows, between them and the 
street-pavement — a recess too narrow for any 
possible use (for even if it had been occupied 
by a seat, as in old time it might have been, 
everybody walking along the street would have 
fallen over the legs of the reposing wayfarers) . 
But, by way of making this two feet depth of 
freehold land more expressive of the dignity 
of an establishment for the sale of spirituous 
liquors, it was fenced from the pavement by an 
imposing iron railing, having four or five spear- 
heads to the yard of it, and six feet high ; con- 
taining as much iron and iron-work, indeed, as 
could well be put into the space ; and by this 
stately arrangement, the little piece of dead 
ground within, between wall and street, be- 
came a protective receptacle of refuse ; cigar 
ends, and oyster shells, and the like, such as 
an open-handed English street-populace, 
habitually scatters from its presence, and was 
thus left, imsweepable by any ordinary 
methods. Now the iron bars which, uselessly 
(or in great degree worse than uselessly), en- 
closed this bit of ground, and made it pesti- 
lent, represented a quantity of work which 
would have cleansed the Carshalton pools 
three times over ; — of work partly cramped 
and deadly, in the mine ; partly fierce and 
exhaustive, at the furnace, partly foolish and 
sedentary, of ill-taught students making bad 
designs : work from the beginning to the last 
fruits of it, and in all the branches of it, veno- 
mous, deathful, and miserable. Now, how 
did it come to pass that this work was done 
instead of the other ; that the strength and 
life of the English operative were spent in 
defihng ground, instead of redeeming it ; and 
in producing an entirely (in that place) value- 
less piece of metal, which can neither be eaten 
nor breathed, instead of medicinal fresh air, 
and pure water? 

There is but one reason for it, and at present 
a conclusive one, — that the capitalist can 
charge percentage on the work in the one case, 

^ a suburb of London 



586 



JOHN RUSKIN 



and cannot in the other. If, having certain 
funds for supporting labour at my disposal, I 
pay men merely to keep my ground in order, 
my money is, in that function, spent once for 
all ; but if I pay them to dig iron out of my 
ground, and work it, and sell it, I can charge 
rent for the groimd, and percentage both on 
the manufacture and the sale, and make my 
capital profitable in these three by-ways. 
The greater part of the profitable investment 
of capital, in the present day, is in operations 
of this kind, in which the public is persuaded 
to buy something of no use to it, on produc- 
tion, or sale, of which, the capitahst may 
charge percentages ; the said public remaining 
all the while imder the persuasion that the 
percentages, thus obtained are real national 
gains, whereas, they are merely filchings 
out of partially light pockets, to swell heavy 
ones. 

Thus, the Croydon publican buys the iron 
railing, to make himself more conspicuous to 
drunkards. The public-housekeeper on the 
other side of the way presently buys another 
railing, to out-rail him with. Both are, as to 
their relative attractiveness to customers of 
taste, just where they were before ; but they 
have lost the price of the railings ; which they 
must either themselves finally lose, or make 
their aforesaid customers of taste pay, by rais- 
ing the price of their beer, or adulterating it. 
Either the publicans, or their customers, are 
thus poorer by precisely what the capitahst 
has gained ; and the value of the work itself, 
meantime, has been lost, to the nation; the 
iron bars in that form and place being wholly 
useless. It is this mode of taxation of the poor 
by the rich which is referred to in the text, in 
comparing the modern acquisitive power of 
capital with that of the lance and sword ; the 
only difference being that the levy of black- 
mail in old times was by force, and is now by 
cozening. The old rider and reiver^ frankly 
quartered himself on the publican for the 
night ; the modern one merely makes his lance 
into an iron spike, and persuades his host to 
buy it. One comes as an open robber, the 
other as a cheating peddler ; but the result, to 
the injured person's pocket, is absolutely the 
same. Of course many usefid industries 
mingle with, and disguise the useless ones ; 
and in the habits of energy aroused by the 
struggle, there is a certain direct good. It is 

^ robber 



far better to spend four thousand pounds in 
making a good gun, and then to blow it to 
pieces, than to pass life in idleness. Only do 
not let it be called "political economy." 
There is also a confused notion in the minds 
of many persons, that the gathering of the 
property of the poor into the hands of the rich 
does no ultimate harm ; since, in whosesoever 
hands it may be, it must be spent at last, and 
thus, they think, return to the poor again. 
This fallacy has been again and again exposed ; 
but grant the plea true, and the same apology 
may, of course, be made for blackmail, or any 
other form of robbery. It might be (though 
practically it never is) as advantageous for the 
nation that the robber should have the spend- 
ing of the money he extorts, as that the per- 
son robbed should have spent it. But this is 
no excuse for the theft. If I were to put a 
turnpike on the road where it passes my own 
gate, and endeavour to exact a shilling from 
every passenger, the public would soon do 
away with my gate, without listening to any 
plea on my part that "it was as advantageous 
to them, in the end, that I should spend their 
shillings, as that they themselves should." 
But if, instead of outfacing them with a turn- 
pike, I can only persuade them to come in and 
buy stones, or old iron, or any other useless 
thing, out of my ground, I may rob them to 
the same extent, and be, moreover, thanked 
as a public benefactor, and promoter of com- 
mercial prosperity. And this main question 
for the poor of England — for the poor of all 
countries — is wholly omitted in every com- 
mon treatise on the subject of wealth. Even 
by the labourers themselves, the operation of 
capital is regarded only in its effect on their 
immediate interests ; never in the far more 
terrific power of its appointment of the kind 
and the object of labour. It matters little, 
ultimately, how much a labourer is paid for 
making anything ; but it matters fearfully 
what the thing is, which he is compelled to 
make. If his labour is so ordered as to pro- 
duce food, and fresh air, and fresh water, no 
matter that his wages are low ; — the food and 
fresh air and water will be at last there ; and 
he will at last get them. But if he is paid to 
destroy food and fresh air, or to produce iron 
bars instead of them, — the food and air will 
finally not be there, and he will not get them, 
to his great and final inconvenience. So that, 
conclusively, in poUtical as in household 
economy the great question is, not so much 



THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE 



587 



what money you have in your pocket, as what 
you will buy with it, and do with it. 

I have been long accustomed, as all men 
engaged in work of investigation must be, to 
hear my statements laughed at for j'ears, 
before they are examined or believed ; and I 
am generally content to wait the public's time. 
But it has not been without displeased sur- 
prise that I have found myself totally imable, 
as yet, by any repetition, or illustration, to 
force this plain thought into my readers' heads 
— that the wealth of nations, as of men, con- 
sists in substance, not in ciphers ; and that the 
real good of all work, and of all commerce, 
depends on the final worth of the thing you 
make, or get by it. This is a practical enough 
statement, one would think : but the English 
public has been so possessed by its modern 
school of economists wth the notion that Busi- 
ness is always good, whether it be busy in mis- 
chief or in benefit ; and that buying and selling 
are always salutary, whatever the intrinsic 
worth of what you buy or sell, — that it seems 
impossible to gain so much as a patient hear- 
ing for any inquiry respecting the substantial 
result of our eager modern labours. I have 
never felt more checked by the sense of this 
impossibility than in arranging the heads of 
the following three lectm-es, which, though 
delivered at considerable intervals of time, and 
in different places, were not prepared without 
reference to each other. Their connection 
would, however, have been made far more dis- 
tinct, if I had not been prevented, by what I 
feel to be another great difficulty in addressing 
English audiences, from enforcing, with any 
decision, the common, and to me, the most im- 
portant, part of their subjects. I chiefly de- 
sired (as I have just said) to question my 
hearers — operatives, merchants, and soldiers, 
as to the ultimate meaning of the business they 
had in hand ; and to know from them what 
they expected or intended their manufacture 
to come to, their selling to come to, and their 
kilhng to come to. That appeared the first 
point needing determination before I could 
speak to them vnih any real utility or effect. 
"You craftsmen — salesmen — swordsmen, — 
do but tell me clearly what you want ; then, 
if I can say anything to help you, I will ; and 
if not, I will account to you as I best may for 
my inability." But in order to put this ques- 
tion into any terms, one had first of all to face 
the difficulty just spoken of — to me for the 
present insuperable, — the difficulty of know- 



ing whether to address one's audience as believ- 
ing, or not believing, in any other world than 
this. For if you address any average modern 
EngHsh company as beheving in an Eternal 
life, and endeavour to draw any conclusions, 
from this assumed belief, as to their present 
business, they will forthwith tell you that 
what you say is very beautiful, but it is not 
practical. If, on the contrary, you frankly 
address them as iifibelievers in Eternal life, 
and try to draw any consequences from that 
unbelief, — they immediately hold you for an 
accursed person, and shake off the dust from 
their feet at you. And the more I thought 
over what I had got to say, the less I found I 
could say it, without some reference to this 
intangible or intractable part of the subject. 
It made all the difference, in asserting any prin- 
ciple of war, whether one assumed that a dis- 
charge of artillery would merely knead down 
a certain quantity of red clay into a level line, 
as in a brick field ; or whether, out of every 
separately Christian-named portion of the 
ruinous heap, there went out, into the smoke 
and dead-fallen air of battle, some astonished 
condition of soul, imwillingly released. It 
made all the difference, in speaking of the pos- 
sible range of commerce, whether one assumed 
that all bargains related only to visible 
property — or whether property, for the pres- 
ent invisible, but nevertheless real, was else- 
where purchasable on other terms. It made 
all the difference, in addressing a body of men 
subject to considerable hardship, and having 
to find some way out of it — whether one 
could confidently say to them, "My friends, 
— you have only to die, and all will be right ; " 
or whether one had any secret misgiving that 
such ad\dce was more blessed to him that gave, 
than to him that took it. And therefore the 
deliberate reader will find, throughout these 
lectures, a hesitation in driving points home, 
and a pausing short of conclusions which he 
will feel I would fain have come to ; hesita- 
tion wliich arises wholly from this uncertainty 
of my hearers' temper. For I do not now 
speak, nor have I ever spoken, since the time 
of first forward youth, in any proselyting tem- 
per, as desiring to persuade any one of what, 
in such matters, I thought myself ; but. whom- 
soever I venture to address, I take for the time 
his creed as I find it ; and endeavour to push 
it into such vital fruit as it seems capable of. 
Thus, it is a creed with a great part of the 
existing English people, that they are in pos- 



588 



JOHN RUSKIN 



session of a book which tells them, straight 
from the lips of God, all they ought to do, and 
need to know. I have read that book, with 
as much care as most of them, for some forty 
years ; and am thankful that, on those who 
trust it, I can press its pleadings. My en- 
deavour has been uniformly to make them 
trust it more deeply than they do ; trust it, 
not in their own favourite verses only, but in 
the sum of all ; trust it not as a fetich or talis- 
man, which they are to be saved by daily 
repetitions of ; but as a Captain's order, to be 
heard and obeyed at their peril. I was always 
encouraged by supposing my hearers to hold 
such belief. To these, if to any, I once had 
hope of addressing, with acceptance, words 
which insisted on the guilt of pride, and the 
futility of avarice ; from these, if from any, I 
once expected ratification of a political 
economy, which asserted that the life was 
more than the meat, and the body than rai- 
ment;^ and these, it once seemed to me, I 
might ask, without accusation of fanaticism, 
not merely in doctrine of the lips, but in the 
bestowal of their heart's treasure, to separate 
themselves from the crowd of whom it is 
written, "After all these things do the Gentiles 
seek." = 

It cannot, however, be assumed, with any 
semblance of reason, that a general audience 
is now wholly, or even in majority, composed 
of these religious persons. A large portion 
must always consist of men who admit no 
such creed ; or who, at least, are inaccessible 
to appeals founded on it. And as, with the 
so-called Christian, I desired to plead for 
honest declaration and fulfilment of his behef 
in hfe, — with the so-called infidel, I desired 
to plead for an honest declaration and fulfil- 
ment of his belief in death. The dUemma is 
inevitable. Men must either hereafter live, 
or hereafter die ; fate may be bravely met, 
and conduct wisely ordered, on either expecta- 
tion ; but never in hesitation between un- 
grasped hope, and unconf routed fear. We 
usually believe in immortality, so far as to 
avoid preparation for death ; and in mortality, 
so far as to avoid preparation for anything 
after death. Whereas, a wise man will at 
least hold himself prepared for one or other 
of two events, of which one or other is in- 
evitable ; and will have all things in order, for 
his sleep, or in readiness, for his awakening. 



Nor have we any right to call it an ignoble 
judgment, if he determine to put them in 
order, as for sleep. A brave belief in life is 
indeed an enviable state of mind, but, as far 
as I can discern, an unusual one. I know few 
Christians so convinced of the splendour of the 
rooms in their Father's house, as to be happier 
when their friends are called to those mansions, 
than they would have been if the Queen had 
sent for them to live at court : nor has the 
Church's most ardent "desire to depart, and 
be with Christ," ^ ever cured it of the singular 
habit of putting on mourning for every person 
summoned to such departure. On the con- 
trary, a brave belief in death has been as- 
suredly held b)^ many not ignoble persons, and 
it is a sign of the last depravity in the Church 
itself, when it assumes that such a belief is 
inconsistent with either purity of character, 
or energy of hand. The shortness of life is 
not, to any rational person, a conclusive 
reason for wasting the space of it which may 
be granted him ; nor does the anticipation of 
death to-morrow suggest, to any one but a 
drunkard, the expediency of drunkenness to- 
day. To teach that there is no device in the 
grave,^ may indeed make the deviceless person 
more contented in his dulness; but it will 
make the deviser only more earnest in devis- 
ing: nor is human conduct likely, in every 
case, to be purer, under the conviction that 
all its evil may in a moment be pardoned, and 
aU its wrong-doing in a moment redeemed ; 
and that the sigh of repentance, which purges 
the guUt of the past, wUl waft the soul into a 
felicity which forgets its pain, — than it may 
be under the sterner, and to many not unwise 
minds more probable, apprehension, that 
"what a man soweth that shall he also reap,"^ 
— or others reap, — when he, the living seed 
of pestUence, walketh no more in darkness, but 
hes down therein. 

But to men whose feebleness of sight, or 
bitterness of soul, or the offence given by the 
conduct of those v/ho claim higher hope, may 
have rendered this painful creed the only pos- 
sible one, there is an appeal to be made, more 
secure in its ground than any which can be 
addressed to happier persons. I would fain, 
if I might oft'encelessly, have spoken to them 
as if none others heard ; and have said thus : 
Hear me, you dying men, who will soon be 
deaf forever. For these others, at your right 



^ Matt, vi : 25 ^ Alatt. vi : 32 



^ Philipp. i : 23 ^ Eccl. i.x : 10 ^ Galat. vi : 7 



THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE 



589 



'hand and your left, who look forward to a 
state of infinite existence, in which all their 
errors wiU be overruled, and all their faults 
forgiven ; for these, who, stained and 
blackened in the battle-smoke of mortality, 
have but to dip themselves for an instant in 
the font of death, and to rise renewed of plu- 
mage, as a dove that is covered with silver, 
and her feathers like gold;^ for these, indeed, 
it may be permissible to waste their numbered 
moments, through faith in a future of innu- 
merable hours ; to these, in their weakness, it 
may be conceded that they should tamper with 
sin which can only bring forth fruit of right- 
eousness, and profit by the iniquity which, one 
day, wiU be remembered no more. In them, 
it may be no sign of hardness of heart to neg- 
lect the poor, over whom they know their 
Master is watching ; and to leave those to 
perish temporarily, who cannot perish eter- 
nally. But, for you, there is no such hope, 
and therefore no such excuse. This fate, 
which you ordain for the wretched, you believe 
to be all their inheritance; you may crush 
them, before the moth,^ and they will never 
rise to rebuke you ; — their breath, which fails 
for lack of food, once expiring, wiU never be 
recalled to whisper against you a word of 
accusing ; — they and you, as you think, shall 
he down together in the dust, and the worms 
cover you ; ^ — and for them there shall be no 
consolation, and on you no vengeance, — only 
the question murmured above your grave : 
"Who shall repay him what he hath done?" 
Is it therefore easier for you in your heart to 
inflict the sorrow for which there is no 
remedy? WiU you take, wantonly, this 
little all of his life from your poor brother, 
and make his brief hours long to him with 
pain? WiU you be readier to the injustice 
which can never be redressed ; and niggardly 
of mercy which you can bestow but once, and 
which, refusing, you refuse forever? I think 
better of you, even of the most selfish, than 
that you would do this, weU understood. And 
for yourselves, it seems to me, the question 
becomes not less grave, in these curt limits. 
If your life were but a fever fit, — the madness 
of a night, whose foUies were all to be forgotten 
in the dawn, it might matter httle how you 
fretted away the sickly hours, — what toys 
you snatched at, or let fall, — what visions 
you foUowed wistfuUy with the deceived eyes 



of sleepless phrenzy. Is the earth only an 
hospital? Play, if you care to play, on the 
floor of the hospital den. Knit its straw into 
what crowns please you ; gather the dust of 
it for treasure, and die rich in that, clutching 
at the black motes in the air with your dying 
hands ; — and yet, it may be weU with you. 
But if this life be no dream, and the world no 
hospital ; if all the peace and power and joy 
you can ever win, must be won now ; and all 
fruit of victory gathered here, or never ; — 
wiU you still, throughout the puny totality of 
your life, weary yourselves in the fire for 
vanity?^ If there is no rest which remaineth 
for you, is there none you might presently 
take ? was this grass of the earth made green 
for your shroud only, not for your bed? and 
can you never lie down tipon it, but only 
under it? The heathen, to whose creed you 
have returned, thought not so. They knew 
that life brought its contest, but they expected 
from it also the crown of aU contest : No proud 
one ! no jeweUed circlet flaming through 
Heaven above the height of the unmerited 
throne; only some few leaves of wild olive, 
cool to the tired brow, through a few years of 
peace. It should have been of gold, they 
thought ; but Jupiter was poor ; this was the 
best the god could give them. Seeking a 
greater than this, they had known it a 
mockery. Not in war, not in wealth, not in 
tyranny, was there any happiness to be found 
for them — only in kindly peace, fruitful and 
free. The wreath was to be of wild olive, 
mark you : — the tree that grows carelessly ; 
tufting the rocks with no vivid bloom, no ver- 
dure of branch ; only with soft snow of 
blossom, and scarcely fulfilled fruit, mixed 
with gray leaf and thornset stem ; no fasten- 
ing of diadem for you but with such sharp 
embroidery ! But this, such as it is, you may 
win while yet you live ; type of gray honour 
and sweet rest. Free-heartedness, and gra- 
ciousness, and undisturbed trust, and requited 
love, and the sight of the peace of others, and 
the ministry to their pain ; — these, and the 
blue sky above you, and the sweet waters and 
flowers of the earth beneath ; and mysteries 
and presences, innumerable, of living things, 
— these may yet be here your riches ; un tor- 
menting and divine; serviceable for the life 
that now is; nor, it may be, without promise 
of that which is to come.'- 



^ Ps. Ixviii : 13 ^ cf. Job iv : 19 ^ cf. Job xxi : 26 



Ilab. ii : 13 " i Tim. iv 



590 



FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMP SON 



FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 

(1821-1895) 

TO MY GRANDMOTHER 

Suggested by a picture by Mr. Romney 

This Relative of mine, 
Was she seventy-and-nine 

When she died? 
By the canvas may be seen 
How she look'd at seventeen, 

As a bride. 

Beneath a summer tree 
Her maiden reverie 

Has a charm ; 
Her ringlets are in taste ; 10 

What an arm ! and what a waist 

For an arm ! 

With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, 
Lace farthingale,^ and gay 

Falbala,^ — 
If Romney's touch be true, 
What a lucky dog were you, 

Grandpapa ! 

Her lips are sweet as love ; 

They are parting ! Do they move? 

Are they dumb ? 21 

Her eyes are blue, and beam 
Beseechingly, and seem 

To say, "Come !" 

What funny fancy slips 

From atween these cherry lips? 

Whisper me. 
Fair Sorceress in paint, 
What canon ^ says I mayn't 

Marry thee ? 30 

That good-for-nothing Time 
Has a confidence sublime ! 

When I first 
Saw this Lady, in my youth, 
Her winters had, forsooth, 

Done their worst. 

Her locks, as white as snow, 
Once shamed the swarthy crow ; 
By-and-by 

^ a contrivance like a hoopskirt ^ furbelow, 
flounce ^ ecclesiastical law 



That fowl's avenging sprite 40 ' 

Set his cruel foot for spite 
Near her eye. 

Her rormded form was lean. 
And her silk was bombazine ; 

Well I wot 
With her needles would she sit. 
And for hours would she knit, — 

Woxild she not ? 

Ah perishable clay ! 

Her charms had dropt away 50 

One by one ; 
But if she heaved a sigh 
With a burthen, it was, "Thy 

Will be done." 

In travail, as in tears. 

With the fardel ^ of her years 

Overprest, 
In mercy she was borne 
Where the weary and the worn 

Are at rest. 60 

Oh, if you now are there, 
And sweet as once you were, 

Grandmamma, 
This nether world agrees 
You'll all the better please 

Grandpapa. 



THE UNREALISED IDEAL 

My only Love is always near, — 

In country or in town, 
I see her twinkling feet, I hear 

The whisper of her gown. 

She foots it ever fair and young, 5 

Her locks are tied in haste. 
And one is o'er her shoulder flung, 

And hangs below her waist. 

She ran before me in the meads ; 

And down this world- worn track 10 
She leads me on ; but while she leads, 

She never gazes back. 

And yet her voice is in my dreams. 
To witch me more and more ; 

That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems 15 
Less near me than of yore. 

^ burden 



DOBELL AND ARNOLD 



591 



Lightly I sped when hope was high, 
And youth beguiled the chase ; 

I follow — follow still ; but I 
Shall never see her Face. 



SIDNEY DOBELL (1824-1874) 



Af^IERICA 



Men say, Columbia, we shall hear thy guns. 
But in what tongue shall be thy battle-cry? 
Not that our sires did love in years gone by, 
When all the Pilgrim Fathers were little sons 
In merrie homes of Englaunde? Back, and 

see 
Thy satchel'd ancestor ! Behold, he runs 
To mine, and, clasp'd, they tread the equal lea 
To the same village-school, where side by side 
They spell "our Father." Hard by, the twin- 
pride 
Of that grey hall whose ancient oriel gleams 
Thro' yon baronial pines, with looks of light 
Our sister-mothers sit beneath one tree. 12 
Meanwhile our Shakespeare wanders past and 

dreams 
His Helena and Hermia. Shall we fight ? 



n 



Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! O ye 
Who north or south, on east or Avestern land, 
Native to noble soimds, say truth for truth, 
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God 
For God ; O ye who in eternal youth 
Speak with a living and creative flood 
This universal English, and do stand 
Its breathing book ; live worthy of that grand 
Heroic utterance — parted, yet a whole, 9 
Far, yet unsevered, — children brave and free 
Of the great JMother-tongue, and ye shall be 
Lords of an Empire wide as Shakespeare's 

soul, 
Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme. 
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as 

Spenser's dream. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888) 

From CULTURE AND ANARCHY 
SWEETNESS AND LIGHT 

The disparagers of culture make its motive 
curiosity ; sometimes, indeed, they make its 
motive mere exclusiveness and vanity. The 
culture which is supposed to plume itself on a 
smattering of Greek and Latin is a culture 
which is begotten by nothing so intellectual 
as curiosity ; it is valued either out of sheer 
vanity and ignorance or else as an engine of 
social and class distinction, separating its 
holder, like a badge or title, from other people 
who have not got it. No serious man Avould 
call this culture, or attach any value to it, as 
culture, at aU. To find the real ground for 
the very different estimate which serious people 
will set upon culture, we must find some 
motive for culture in the terms of which may 
lie a real ambiguity ; and such a motive the 
word curiosity gives us. 

I have before now pointed out that we Eng- 
lish do not, like the foreigners, use this w^ord 
in a good sense as well as in a bad sense. 
With us the word is always used in a somewhat 
disapproving sense. A liberal and intelligent 
eagerness about the things of the mind may be 
meant by a foreigner when he speaks of curi- 
osity, but with us the word always conveys 
a certain notion of frivolous and unedifying 
activity. In the Quarterly Review, some little 
time ago, was an estimate of the celebrated 
French critic, M. Sainte-Beuve, and a very 
inadequate estimate it in my judgment was. 
And its inadequacy consisted chiefly in this : 
that in our English way it left out of sight 
the double sense really involved in the word 
curiosity, thinking enough was said to stamp 
M. Sainte-Beuve with blame if it was said that 
he was impelled in his operations as a critic 
by curiosity, and omitting' either to perceive 
that M. Sainte-Beuve himself, and many other 
people with him, would consider that this was 
praiseworthy and not blameworthy, or to point 
out why it ought really to be accounted worthy 
of blame and not of praise. For as there is a 
curiosity about intellectual matters which is 
futile, and merely a disease, so there is cer- 
tainly a curiosity, — a desire after the things 
of the mind simply for their own sakes and for 
the pleasure of seeing them as they are, — 
which is, in an intelligent being, natural and 



592 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



laudable. Nay, and the very desire to see 
things as they are implies a balance and regu- 
lation of mind which is not often attained with- 
out fruitful effort, and which is the very oppo- 
site of the blind and diseased impulse of mind 
which is what we mean to blame when we 
blame curiosity. Montesquieu^ says: "The 
first motive which ought to impel us to study 
is the desire to augm.ent the excellence of our 
nature, and to render an intelligent being yet 
more intelligent." This is the true ground to 
assign for the genuine scientific passion, how- 
ever manifested, and for culture, viewed 
simply as a fruit of this passion ; and it is a 
worthy ground, even though we let the term 
curiosity stand to describe it. 

But there is of culture another view, in 
which not solely the scientific passion, the 
sheer desire to see things as they are, natural 
and proper in an intelligent being, appears as 
the ground of it. There is a view in which all 
the love of our neighbour, the impulses toward 
action, help, and beneficence, the desire for 
removing human error, clearing human con- 
fusion, and diminishing human misery, the 
noble aspiration to leave the world better and 
happier than we found it, — • motives emi- 
nently such as are called social, — come in as 
part of the grounds of culture, and the main 
and preeminent part. Culture is then 
properly described not as having its origin in 
curiosity, but as having its origin in the love 
of perfection ; it is a study of perfection. It 
moves by the force, not merely or primarily of 
the scientific passion for pure knowledge, but 
also of the moral and social passion for doing 
good. As, in the first view of it, we took for 
its worthy motto Montesquieu's words : " To 
render an intelligent being yet more intelli- 
gent !" so, in the second view of it, there is 
no better motto which it can have than these 
words of Bishop Wilson i^ "To make reason 
and the will of God prevail !" 

Only, whereas the passion for doing good is 
apt to be overhasty in determining what 
reason and the will of God say, because its turn 
is for acting rather than thinking and it wants 
to be beginning to act ; and whereas it is apt 
to take its own conceptions, which proceed 
from its own state of development and share 
in all the imperfections and immaturities of 

^ a French philosopher (1689-1755), author of 
the famous L'espril des his ^ Thomas Wilson 
(1663-1755), Bishop of Sodor and Man 



this, for a basis of action ; what distinguishes 
culture is, that it is possessed by the scientific 
passion as well as by the passion of doing 
good ; that it demands worthy notions of 
reason and the will of God, and does not 
readily suffer its own crude conceptions to 
substitute themselves for them. And know- 
ing that no action or institution can be salu- 
tary and stable which is not based on reason 
and the will of God, it is not so bent on acting 
and instituting, even with the great aim of 
diminishing human error and misery ever 
before its thoughts, but that it can remember 
that acting and instituting are of little use, 
unless we know how and what we ought to 
act and to institute. 

This culture is more interesting and more 
far-reaching than that other, which is founded 
solely on the scientific passion for knowing. 
But it needs times of faith and ardour, times 
when the intellectual horizon is opening and 
widening aU round us, to flourish in. And is 
not the close and bounded intellectual horizon 
within which we have long lived and moved 
now lifting up, and are not new lights finding 
free passage to shine in upon us ? For a long 
time there was no passage for them to make 
their way in upon us, and then it was of no use 
to think of adapting the world's action to them. 
Where was the hope of making reason and the 
will of God prevail among people who had a 
routine which they had christened reason and 
the will of God, in which they were inextri- 
cably bound, and beyond which they had no 
power of looking? But now the iron force of 
adhesion to the old routine, — social, political, 
religious — has wonderfully yielded ; the iron 
force of exclusion of all which is new has 
wonderfully yielded. The danger now is, not 
that people should obstinately refuse to allow 
anything but their old routine to pass for 
reason and the wiU of God, but either that 
they should allow some novelty or other to 
pass for these too easily, or else that they 
should underrate the importance of them 
altogether, and think it enough to follow 
action for its own sake, without troubling 
themselves to make reason and the will of God 
prevail therein. Now, then, is the moment 
for culture to be of service, culture which 
believes in making reason and the will of 
God prevail, believes in perfection, is the 
study and pursuit of perfection, and is no 
longer debarred, by a rigid invincible ex- 
clusion of whatever is new, from getting 



CULTURE AND ANARCHY 



593 



acceptance for its ideas, simply because they 
are new. 

The moment this view of culture is seized, 
the moment it is regarded not solely as the 
endeavour to see things as they are, to draw 
towards a knowledge of the universal order 
which seems to be intended and aimed at in 
the world, and which it is a man's happiness 
to go along with or his misery to go counter to, 
— to learn, in short, the will of God, — the 
moment, I say, culture is considered not 
merely as the endeavour to see and learn this, 
but as the endeavour, also, to make it prevail, 
the moral, social, and beneficent character of 
culture becomes manifest. The mere endeav- 
our to see and learn the truth for our own 
personal satisfaction is indeed a commence- 
ment for making it prevail, a preparing the 
way for this, which always serves this, and is 
wrongly, therefore, stamped wdth blame abso- 
lutely in itself and not only in its caricature 
and degeneration. But perhaps it has got 
stamped with blame, and disparaged with the 
dubious title of curiosity, because in compari- 
son with this wider endeavour of such great 
and plain utility it looks selfish, petty, and 
unprofitable. 

And religion, the greatest and most im- 
portant of the efforts by which the human race 
has manifested its impulse to perfect itself, — 
religion, that voice of the deepest human ex- 
perience, — does not only enjoin and sanction 
the aim which is the great aim of culture, the 
aim of setting ourselves to ascertain what per- 
fection is and to make it prevail ; but also, in 
determining generally in what human perfec- 
tion consists, religion comes to a conclusion 
identical with that which culture, — culture 
seeking the determination of this question 
through all the voices of human experience 
which have been heard upon it, of art, science, 
poetry, philosophy, history, as well as of re- 
ligion, in order to give a greater fulness and 
certainty to its solution, — likewise reaches. 
Religion says : TJie kingdom of God is within 
you; and culture, in like manner, places hu- 
man perfection in an internal condition, in the 
growth and predominance of our humanity 
proper, as distinguished from our animality. 
It places it in the ever-increasing efficacy and 
in the general harmonious expansion of those 
gifts of thought and feeling, which make the 
peculiar dignity, wealth, and happiness of 
human nature. As I have said on a former 
occasion: "It is in making endless additions 



to itself, in the endless expansion of its powers, 
in endless growth in wisdom and beauty, that 
the spirit of the human ra^e finds its ideal. 
To reach this ideal, culture is an indispensable 
aid, and that is the true value of culture." 
Not a having and a resting, but a growing 
and a becoming, is the character of perfection 
as culture conceives it ; and here, too, it coin- 
cides with religion. 

And because men are all members of one 
great whole, and the sympathy which is in 
human nature will not allow one member to 
be indifferent to the rest or to have a perfect 
welfare independent of the rest, the expansion 
of our humanit}'', to suit the idea of perfection 
which culture forms, must be a general expan- 
sion. Perfection, as culture conceives it, is 
not possible while the individual remains iso- 
lated. The individual is required, under pain 
of being stunted and enfeebled in his own 
development if he disobeys, to carry others 
along with him in his march towards perfec- 
tion, to be continually doing all he can to en- 
large and increase the volume of the human 
stream sweeping thitherward. And here, once 
more, culture lays on us the same obligation as 
religion, which says, as Bishop Wilson has 
admirably put it, that "to promote the king- 
dom of God is to increase and hasten one's 
own happiness." 

But, finally, perfection, — as culture from 
a thorough disinterested study of human 
nature and human experience learns to con- 
ceive it, — is a harmonious expansion of all 
the powers which make the beauty and worth 
of human nature, and is not consistent with 
the over-development of any one power at the 
expense of the rest. Here culture goes beyond 
religion, as religion is generally conceived 
by us. 

If culture, then, is a study of perfection, and 
of harmonious perfection, general perfection, 
and perfection which consists in becoming 
something rather than in having something, in 
an inward condition of the mind and spirit, 
not in an outward set of circumstances, — it is 
clear that culture, instead of being the frivo- 
lous and useless thing which Mr. Bright,^ and 
Mr. Frederic Harrison,- and many other Liber- 
als are apt to call it, has a very important 
function to fulfil for mankind. And this 

1 John Bright (1811-89), English Liberal 
statesman and orator ^ (b. 183 1), essayist and 
leader of the Positivist philosophy in England 



594 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



function is particularly important in our 
modern world, of which the whole civilisation 
is, to a much greater degree than the civilisa- 
tion of Greece and Rome, mechanical and 
externa], and tends constantly to become 
more so. But above all in our own country 
'has culture a weighty part to perform, because 
here that mechanical character, which civili- 
sation tends to take ever3rwhere, is shown 
in the most eminent degree. Indeed nearly 
all the characters of perfection, as culture 
teaches us to fix them, meet in this country 
with some powerful tendency which thwarts 
them and sets them at defiance. The idea 
of perfection as an inward condition of the 
mind and spirit is at variance with the mechan- 
ical and material civilisation in esteem with us, 
and nowhere, as I have said, so much in esteem 
as with us. The idea of perfection as a general 
expansion of the human family is at variance 
with our strong individualism, our hatred of all 
limits to the unrestrained swing of the indi- 
vidual's personality, our maxim of "every man 
for himself. ' ' Above all, the idea of perfection 
as a harmonious expansion of human nature 
is at variance with, our want of flexibility, with 
our inaptitude for seeing more than one side 
of a thing, with our intense energetic absorp- 
tion iii the particular pursuit we happen to be 
following. So culture has a rough task to 
achieve in this country. Its preachers have, 
and are likely long to have, a hard time of it, 
and they will much oftener be regarded, for a 
great while to come, as elegant or spurious 
Jeremiahs than as friends and benefactors. 
That, however, will not prevent their doing 
in the end good service if they persevere. 
And, meanwhile, the mode of action they have 
to pursue, and the sort of habits they must 
fight against, ought to be made quite clear 
for every one to see, who may be willing to 
look at the matter attentively and dispassion- 
ately. 

Faith in machinery is, I said, our besetting 
danger ; often in machinery most absurdly dis- 
proportioned to the end which this machin- 
ery, if it is to do any good at all, is to serve ; 
but always in machinery, as if it had a value 
in and for itself. What is freedom but ma- 
chinery? what is population but machinery? 
what is coal but machinery? what are rail- 
roads but machinery? what is wealth but 
machinery? what are, even, religious organi- 
sations but machinery? Now almost every 
voice in England is accustomed to speak of 



these things as if they were precious ends in 
themselves, and therefore had some of the 
characters of perfection indisputably joined 
to them. I have before now noticed Mr. 
Roebuck's stock argument for proving the 
greatness and happiness of England as she 
is, and for quite stopping the mouths of all 
gainsay ers. Mr. Roebuck is never weary of 
reiterating this argument of his, so I do not 
know why I should be weary of noticing it. 
"May not every man in England say what 
he likes?" — Mr. Roebuck perpetually asks; 
and that, he thinks, is quite sufficient, and 
when every man may say what he likes, our 
aspirations ought to be satisfied. But the 
aspirations of culture, which is the study of 
perfection, are not satisfied, unless what men 
say, when they may say what they like, is 
worth sa^dng, — has good in it, and more good 
than bad. In the same way the Times, 
replying to some foreign strictures on the 
dress, looks, and behaviour of the English 
abroad, urges that the English ideal is that 
every one should be free to do and to look just 
as he likes. But culture indefatigably tries, 
not to make what each raw person may like 
the rule by which he fashions himself ; but to 
draw ever nearer to a sense of what is indeed 
beautiful, graceful, and becoming, and to get 
the raw person to like that. 

And in the same way with respect to rail- 
roads and coal. Every one must have ob- 
served the strange language current during 
the late discussions as to the possible failure 
of our supplies of coal. Our coal, thousands 
of people were saying, is the real basis of our 
national greatness ; if our coal runs short, 
there is an end of the greatness of England. 
But what is greatness? — culture makes us 
ask. Greatness is a spiritual condition 
worthy to excite love, interest, and admira- 
tion ; and the outward proof of possessing 
greatness is that we excite love, interest, and 
admiration. If England were swallowed up 
by the sea to-morrow, which of the two, a 
hundred years hence, would most excite the 
love, interest, and admiration of mankind, — 
would most, therefore, show the evidences of 
having possessed greatness, — the England 
of the last twenty years, or the England of 
Elizabeth, of a time of splendid spiritual 
effort, but when our coal, and our industrial 
operations depending on coal, were very 
httle developed? Well, then, what an un- 
sound habit of mind it must be which makes 



CULTURE AND ANARCHY 



595 



us talk of things like coal or iron as con- 
stituting the greatness of England, and how 
salutary a friend is culture, bent on seeing 
things as they are, and thus dissipating delu- 
sions of this kind and fixing standards of 
perfection that are real ! 

Wealth, again, that end to which our pro- 
digious works for material advantage are di- 
rected, — the commonest of commonplaces 
tells us how men are always apt to regard 
wealth as a precious end in itself; and cer- 
tainly they have never been so apt thus to 
regard it as they are in England at the present 
time. Never did people believe anything 
more firmly than nine Englishmen out of ten 
at the present day believe that our greatness 
and welfare are proved by our being so very 
rich. Now, the use of culture is that it 
helps us, by means of its spiritual standard of 
perfection, to regard wealth as but machinery, 
and not only to say as a matter of words that 
we regard wealth as but machinery, but really 
to perceive and feel that it is so. If it were 
not for this purging effect WTOught upon our 
minds by culture, the whole world, the future 
as well as the present, woxild inevitably belong 
to the Philistines.^ The people who believe 
most that our greatness and welfare are 
proved by our being very rich, and who most 
give their lives and thoughts to becoming rich, 
are just the very people whom we call Philis- 
tines. Culture says : " Consider these people, 
then, their way of life, their habits, their 
manners, the very tones of their voice ; look 
at them attentively ; observe the literature 
they read, the things which give them pleas- 
ure, the words which come forth out of their 
mouths, the thoughts which make the furni- 
ture of their minds : would any amount of 
wealth be worth having with the condition 
that one was to become just like these people 
by having it?" And thus culture begets a 
dissatisfaction which is of the highest possible 
value in stemming the common tide of men's 
thoughts in a wealthy and industrial commu- 
nity, and which saves the future, as one may 
hope, from being vulgarised, even if it cannot 
save the present. 

Population, again, and bodily health and 
vigour, are things which are nowhere treated 
in such an unintelligent, misleading, exagger- 
ated way as in England. Both are really ma- 

* those who have no interest beyond " the main 
chance," enemies of ideas and art 



chinery ; yet how many people all around us 
do we see rest in them and fail to look beyond 
them ! Why, one has heard people, fresh 
from reading certain articles of the Times on 
the Registrar-General's returns of marriages 
and births in this country, who would talk of 
our large English families in quite a solemn 
strain, as if they had something in itself 
beautiful, elevating, and meritorious in them ; 
as if the British Philistine would have only to 
present himself before the Great Judge with 
his twelve children, m order to be received 
among the sheep as a matter of right ! 

But bodily health and vigour, it may be 
said, are not to be classed with wealth and 
population as mere machinery ; they have 
a more real and essential value. True ; but 
only as they are more intimately connected 
with a perfect spiritual condition than wealth 
or population are. The moment we disjoin 
them from the idea of a perfect spiritual con- 
dition, and pursue them, as we do pursue them, 
for their own sake and as ends in themselves, 
our worship of them becomes as mere worship 
of machinery, as oiir worship of wealth or pop- 
ulation, and as unintelligent and vulgarising 
a worship as that is. Every one with any- 
thing like an adequate idea of human perfec- 
tion has distinctly marked this subordination 
to higher and spiritual ends of the cultivation 
of bodily vigour and activity. "Bodily 
exercise profiteth little ; but godliness is 
profitable unto all things," says the author 
of the Epistle to Timothy. And the utili- 
tarian Franklin says just as explicitly : — 
"Eat and drink such an exact quantity as 
suits the constitution of thy body, in refer- 
ence to the services of the mind." But the 
point of view of culture, keepmg the mark of 
human perfection simply and broadly in 
view, and not assigning to this perfection, as 
religion or utilitarianism assigns to it, a special 
and Umited character, this point of view, I say, 
of culture is best given by these words of 
Epictetus : ^ — " It is a sign of d</)ma," says he, 
— that is, of a nature not finely tempered, — 
"to give yourselves up to things which relate 
to the body ; to make, for instance, a great 
fuss about exercise, a great fuss about eating, 
a great fuss about drinking, a great fuss about 
walking, a great fuss about riding. All these 
things ought to be done merely by the way : 

^ a Roman Stoic philosopher, author of many 
famous maxims of conduct 



596 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



the formation of the spirit and character must 
be our real concern." This is admirable; 
and, indeed, the Greek word ei^via, a finely 
tempered nature, gives exactly the notion of 
perfection as culture brings us to conceive it ; 
a harmonious perfection, a perfection in which 
the characters of beauty and inteUigence are 
both present, wliich unites " the two noblest of 
things," — as Swift, who of one of the two, 
at any rate, had himself all too little, most 
happily calls them in his Battle of the Books, — 
" the two noblest of things, sweetness and light.'' 
The evfffVT^'s is the man who tends towards 
sweetness and hght ; the a<f>vTJ<;, on the other 
hand, is our Philistine. The immense spirit- 
ual significance of the Greeks is due to their 
having been inspired with this central and 
happy idea of the essential character of human 
perfection; and Mr. Bright's misconception 
of culture, as a smattering of Greek and 
Latin, comes itself, after all, from this wonder- 
ful significance of the Greeks having affected 
the very machinery of our education, and is 
in itself a kind of homage to it. 

In thus making sweetness and light to be 
characters of perfection, culture is of like 
spirit with poetry, follows one law with poetry. 
Far more than on our freedom, our population, 
and our industrialism, many amongst us rely 
upon our religious organisations to save vis. 
I have called religion a yet more important 
manifestation of human nature than poetry, 
because it has worked on a broader scale for 
perfection, and with greater masses of men. 
But the idea of beauty and of a hrnnan nature 
perfect on all its sides, which is the dominant 
idea of poetry, is a true and invaluable idea, 
though it has not yet had the success that the 
idea of conquering the obvious faults of our 
animality, and of a human nature perfect on 
the moral side, — which is the dominant idea 
of rehgion, — has been enabled to have ; and 
it is destined, adding to itself the religious idea 
of a devout energy, to transform and govern 
the other. 

The best art and poetry of the Greeks, in 
which rehgion and poetry are one, in which the 
idea of beauty and of a human nature perfect 
on all sides adds to itself a religious and devout 
energy, and works in the strength of that, is on 
this accovmt of such surpassing interest and 
instructivcness for us, though it was, — as, 
having regard to the Greeks themselves, we 
must own, — a premature attempt, an at- 
tempt which for success needed the moral 



and religious fibre in humanity to be more 
braced and developed than it had yet been. 
But Greece did not err in having the idea of 
beauty, harmony, and complete human per- 
fection, so present and paramount. It is 
impossible to have this idea too present and 
paramount ; only, the moral fibre must be 
braced too. And we, because we have braced 
the moral fibre, are not on that account in 
the right way, if at the same time the idea 
of beauty, harmony, and complete human 
perfection, is wanting or misapprehended 
amongst us ; and evidently it is wanting or 
misapprehended at present. And when we 
rely as we do on our religious organisations, 
which in themselves do not and cannot give 
us this idea, and think we have done enough if 
we make them spread and prevail, then, I say, 
we fall into our common fault of overvaluing 
machinery. 



The impulse of the EngHsh race towards 
moral development and self-conquest has no- 
where so powerfully manifested itself as in 
Puritanism. Nowhere has Puritanism found 
so adequate an expression as in the rehgious 
organisation of the Independents.'^ The mod- 
ern Independents have a newspaper, the Non- 
conformist, written with great sincerity and 
abihty. The motto, the standard, the pro- 
fession of faith which this organ of theirs 
carries aloft, is: "The Dissidence of Dissent 
and the Protestantism of the Protestant reli- 
gion."^ There is sweetness and hght, and an 
ideal of complete harmonious human perfec- 
tion ! One need not go to culture and poetry 
to find language to judge it. Rehgion, with 
its instinct for perfection, supplies language to 
judge it, language, too, which is in our mouths 
every day. "Finally, be of one mind, united 
in feeling," says St. Peter. There is an ideal 
which judges the Puritan ideal: "The Dissi- 
dence of Dissent and the Protestantism of the 
Protestant rehgion!" And religious organi- 
sations like this are what people believe in, 
rest in, would give their lives for ! Such, I say, 
is the wonderful virtue of even the beginnings 
of perfection, of having conquered even the 
plain faults of our animality, that the religious 
organisation which has helped us to do it can 
seem to us something precious, salutary, and 

^ i.e., Congregationalists ^Quoted from Burke's 
speech on Conciliation. 



CULTURE AND ANARCHY 



597 



to be propagated, even when it wears such a 
brand of imperfection on its forehead as this. 
And men have got such a habit of giving to the 
language of religion a special application, of 
making it a mere jargon, that for the condem- 
nation which religion itself passes on the short- 
comings of their religious organisations they 
have no ear ; they are sure to cheat themselves 
and to explain this condemnation away. 
They can only be reached by the criticism 
which culture, like poetry, speaking a language 
not to be sophisticated, and resolutely testing 
these organisations by the ideal of a human per- 
fection complete on all sides, applies to them. 
But men of culture and poetry, it will be 
said, are again and again failing, and failing 
conspicuously, in the necessary first stage to a 
harmonious perfection, in the subduing of the 
great obvious faults of our animality, which it 
is the glory of these religious organisations to 
have helped us to subdue. True, they do 
often so fail. . They have often been without 
the virtues as weU as the faults of the Puritan ; 
it has been one of their dangers that they 
so felt the Puritan's faults that they too much 
neglected the practice of his virtues. I will 
not, however, exculpate them at the Puritan's 
expense. They have often failed in morality, 
and morality is indispensable. And they have 
been punished for their failure, as the Puritan 
has been rewarded for his performance. They 
have been punished wherein they erred; but 
their ideal of beauty, of sweetness and light, 
and a human nature complete on all its sides, 
remains the true ideal of perfection still ; just 
as the Puritan's ideal of perfection remains 
narrow and inadequate, although for what he 
did well he has been richly rewarded. Not- 
withstanding the mighty results of the Pilgrim 
Fathers' voyage, they and their standard of 
perfection are rightly judged when we figure 
to ourselves Shakspeare or VirgU, — souls in 
whom sweetness and light, and aU that in hu- 
man nature is most humane, were eminent, — 
accompanying them on their voyage, and 
think what intolerable company Shakspeare 
and Virgil would have found them ! In the 
same way let us judge the rehgious organisa- 
tions which we see aU around us. Do not 
let us deny the good and the happiness which 
they have accomplished ; but do not let us fail 
to see clearly that their idea of human perfec- 
tion is narrow and inadequate, and that the 
Dissidence of Dissent and the Protestantism 
of the Protestant religion will never bring 



humanity to its true goal. As I said with 
regard to wealth : Let us look at the life of 
those who live in and for it, — so I say with 
regard to the religious organisations. Look 
at the life imaged in such a newspaper as the 
Nonconformist, — a life of jealousy of the 
Establishment, disputes, tea-meetings, open- 
ings of chapels, sermons ; and then think of it 
as an ideal of a human life completing itself 
on all sides, and aspiring with all its organs 
after sweetness, light, and perfection ! 

Another newspaper, representing, like the 
Nonconformist, one of the religious organisa- 
tions of this country, was a short time ago 
giving an account of the crowd at Epsom on 
the Derby ^ day, and of all the vice and hideous- 
ness which was to be seen in that crowd ; and 
then the writer turned suddenly round upon 
Professor Huxley ,2 and asked him how he pro- 
posed to cure all this vice and hideousness 
without rehgion. I confess I felt disposed to 
ask the asker this question : and how do you 
propose to cure it with such a religion as 
yours ? How is the ideal of a life so unlovely, 
so unattractive, so incomplete, so narrow, so 
far removed from a true and satisfying ideal of 
human perfection, as is the life of your reh- 
gious organisation as you yourself reflect it, to 
conquer and transform all this vice and hide- 
ousness? Indeed, the strongest plea for the 
study of perfection as pursued by culture, the 
clearest proof of the actual inadequacy of the 
idea of perfection held by the religious organ- 
isations, — expresshig, as I have said, the 
most wide-spread effort which the human 
race has yet made after perfection, — is to be 
found in the state of our life and society with 
these in possession of it, and having been in 
possession of it I know not how many hundred 
years. We are all of us included in some 
religious organisation or other; we aU call 
ourselves, in the sublime and aspiring lan- 
guage of religion which I have before noticed, 
children of God. Children of God ; — it is an 
immense pretension ! — and how are we to 
justify it? By the works which we do, and 
the words which we speak. And the work 
which we collective children of God do, our 
grand centre of life, our city which we have 
builded for us to dwell in, is London ! 
London, with its unutterable external hideous- 
ness, and with its internal canker of publice 

^ an annual race for three-year-olds - a biolo- 
gist and agnostic (1825-95) 



598 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



egestas, privatim opulentia^ — to use the words 
which Sallust puts into Cato's mouth about 
Rome, — unequalled in the world ! The 
word, again, which we children of God speak, 
the voice which most hits our collective 
thought, the newspaper with the largest 
circulation in England, nay, with the largest 
circulation in the whole world, is the Daily 
Telegraph! I say that when our religious 
organisations, — which I admit to express the 
most considerable effort after perfection that 
our race has yet made, — land us in no better 
result than this, it is high time to examine 
carefully their idea of perfection, and to see 
whether it does not leave out of account 
sides and forces of human nature which we 
might turn to great use ; whether it would 
not be more operative if it were more complete. 
And I say that the English reliance on our 
religious organisations and on their ideas of 
human perfection just as they stand, is like 
ovir reliance on freedom, on muscular Chris- 
tianity, on population, on coal, on wealth, — ■ 
mere belief in machinery, and unfruitful ; 
and that it is wholesomely counteracted by 
culture, bent on seeing things as they are, and 
on drawing the human race onwards to a 
more complete, a harmonious perfection. 

Culture, however, shows its single-minded 
love of perfection, its desire simply to make 
reason and the will of God prevail, its freedom 
from fanaticism, by its attitude towards all 
this machinery, even while it insists that it is 
machinery. Fanatics, seeing the mischief men 
do themselves by their blind belief in some 
machinery or other, — whether it is wealth 
and industrialism, or whether it is the culti- 
vation of bodily strength and activit}^, or 
whether it is a religious organisation, — op- 
pose with might and main the tendency to this 
or that political and religious organisation, or 
to games and athletic exercises, or to wealth 
and industrialism, and try violently to stop it. 
But the flexibility which sweetness and light 
give, and which is one of the rewards of cul- 
ture pursued in good faith, enables a man to 
see that a tendency may be necessary, and 
even, as a preparation for something in the 
future, salutary, and yet that the generations 
or individuals who obey this tendency are 
sacrificed to it, that they fall short of the hope 
of perfection by following it ; and that its 

^ "public want and private wealth," quoted 
from Sallust's Caliliiic, lii 



mischiefs are to be criticised, lest it should 
take too fijm a hold and last after it has served 
its purpose. 

Mr. Gladstone well pointed out, in a speech 
at Paris, — and others have pointed out the 
sa-me thing, — how necessary is the present 
great movement towards wealth and indus- 
trialism, in order to lay broad foundations of 
material well-being for the society of the 
future. The worst of these justifications is, 
that they are generally addressed to the very 
people engaged, body and soul, in the move- 
ment in question ; at all events, that they are 
always seized with the greatest avidity by 
these people, and taken by them as quite 
justifying their life ; and that thus they tend 
to harden them in their sins. Now, culture 
admits the necessit}^ of the movement towards 
fortune-making and exaggerated industriaUsm, 
readily allows that the futiure may derive 
benefit from it ; but insists, at the same time, 
that the passing generations of industriaUsts, 
— forming, for the most part, the stout main 
body of Philistinism, — are sacrificed to it. 
In the same way, the result of all the games 
and sports which occupy the passing genera- 
tion of boys and young men may be the 
establishment of a better and sounder physical 
type for the future to work with. Culture 
does not set itself against the games and 
sports ; it congratulates the future, and hopes 
it will make a good use of its improved 
physical basis; but it points out that our 
passing generation of boys and young men is, 
meantime, sacrificed. Puritanism was per- 
haps necessary to develop the moral fibre of 
the English race. Nonconformity to break 
the yoke of ecclesiastical domination over 
men's minds and to prepare the way for free- 
dom of thought in the distant future; still, 
culture points out that the harmonious per- 
fection of generations of Pm^itans and Non- 
conformists has been, in consequence, sacri- 
ficed. Freedom of speech may be necessary 
for the society of the future, but the young 
lions ^ of the Daily Telegraph in the meanwhile 
are sacrificed. A voice for every man in his 
cotmtry's government may be necessary for 
the society of the future, but meanwhile Mr. 
Beales'^ and Mr. Bradlaugh^ are sacrificed. 

^ Arnold's term for the editorial writers of the 
Telegraph " Edmond Eeales, IM.P., an active ad- 
vocate of reforms ^ Charles Bradlaugh, a radical 
lecturer and writer, later a member of Parliament 



CULTURE AND ANARCHY 



599 



Oxford, the Oxford of the past, has many 
faults ; and she has heavily paid for them in 
defeat, in isolation, in want of hold upon the 
modern world. Yet we in Oxford, brought up 
amidst the beauty and sweetness of that 
beautiful place, have not failed to seize one 
truth, — the truth that beauty and sweetness 
are essential characters of a complete human 
perfection. When I insist on this, I am all in 
the faith and tradition of Oxford. I say 
boldly that this our sentiment for beauty and 
sweetness, our sentiment against hideousness 
and rawness, has been at the bottom of our 
attachment to so many beaten causes, of our 
opposition to so many triumphant movements. 
And the sentiment is true, and has never been 
wholly defeated, and has shown its power even 
in its defeat. We have not won our political 
battles, we have not carried our main points, 
we have not stopped our adversaries' advance, 
we have not marched victoriously with the 
modern world ; but we have told silently upon 
the mind of the country, we have prepared 
currents of feeling which sap our adversaries' 
position when it seems gained, we have kept 
up our own commimications with the future. 
Look at the course of the great movement 
which shook Oxford to its centre some thirty 
years ago ! It was directed, as any one who 
reads Dr. Newman's Apology^ may see, against 
what in one word may be called "Liberalism." 
LiberaUsm prevailed ; it was the appointed 
force to do the work of the hour ; it was neces- 
sary, it was inevitable that it should prevail. 
The Oxford movement was broken, it failed ; 
our wrecks are scattered on every shore : — 

Quae regio in terris nostri non plena laboris ? ^ 

But what was it, this liberaUsm, as Dr. New- 
man saw it, and as it really broke the Oxford 
movement? It was the great middle-class 
liberalism, which had for the cardinal points 
of its belief the Reform Bill of 1S32, and local 
self-government, in politics ; in the social 
sphere, free-trade, unrestricted competition, 
and the making of large industrial fortunes; 
in the religious sphere, the Dissidence of 
Dissent and the Protestantism of the Prot- 
estant religion. I do not say that other and 
more intelligent forces than this were not 

^ J. H. Newman (later Cardinal), Apologia pro 
Vila Sua ^ "What region in the world is not 
filled with the tale of our woe?" 



opposed to the Oxford movement: but this 
was the force which really beat it ; this was 
the force which Dr. Newman felt himself 
fighting with; this was the force which till 
only the other day seemed to be the para- 
mount force in this country, and to be in 
possession of the future ; this was the force 
whose achievements fill Mr. Lowe ^ with such 
inexpressible avimiration, and whose rule he 
was so horror-struck to see threatened. And 
where is this great force of Philistinism now? 
It is thrust into the second rank, it is become 
a power of yesterday, it has lost the future. 
A new power has suddenly appeared, a 
power which it is impossible yet to judge 
fully, but which is certainly a wholly different 
force from middle-class liberalism ; different 
in its cardinal points of belief, different in its 
tendencies in every sphere. It loves and 
admires neither the legislation of middle- 
class ParUaments, nor the local self-gov- 
ernment of middle-class vestries, nor the 
unrestricted competition of middle-class indus- 
trialists, nor the Dissidence of middle-class 
Dissent and the Protestantism of middle- 
class Protestant religion. I am not now 
praising this new force, or saying that its 
own ideals are better ; all I say is, that they 
are Vv^hoUy different. And who will estimate 
how much the currents of feeling created by 
Dr. Newman's movement, the keen desire for 
beauty and sweetness which it nourished, the 
deep aversion it manifested to the hardness 
and vulgarity of middle-class liberalism, the 
strong light it turned on the hideous and 
grotesque illusions of middle-class Protestan- 
tism, — who will estimate how much all these 
contributed to swell the tide of secret dis- 
satisfaction which has mined the ground 
imder self-confident liberahsm of the last 
thirty years, and has prepared the way for its 
sudden collapse and supersession? It is 
in this manner that the sentiment of Oxford 
for beauty and sweetness conquers, and in 
this manner long may it continue to conquer I 



Cidture is always assigning to system- 
makers and systems a smaller share in the 
bent of human destiny than their friends like. 
A current in people's minds sets towards new 
ideas ; people are dissatisfied with their old 

^ Robert Lowe (afterwards Lord Sherbrooke), 
a bitter opponent of Disraeli's Reform Bill 



6oo 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



narrow stock of Philistine ideas, Anglo-Saxon 
ideas, or any other ; and some man, some 
Bentham ^ or Cpmte,^ who has the real merit of 
having early and strongly felt arid helped the 
new current, but who brings plenty of narrow- 
ness and mistakes of his own into his feeling 
and help of it, is credited with being the author 
of the whole current, the fit person to be en- 
trusted with its regulation and to guide the 
human race. 

The excellent German historian of the my- 
thology of Rome, Preller, relating the introduc- 
tion at Rome under the Tarquins ^ of the wor- 
ship of Apollo, the god of light, heaUng, and 
reconciliation, will have us observe that it was 
not so much the Tarquins who brought to 
Rome the new worship of Apollo, as a current 
in the mind of the Roman people which set 
powerfully at that time towards a new worship 
of this kind, and away from the old run of 
Latin and Sabine^ religious ideas. In a 
similar way, culture directs our attention to 
the natural current there is in human affairs, 
and to its continual working, and will not let 
us rivet our faith upon any one man and his 
doings. It makes us see not only his good 
side, but also how much in him was of neces- 
sity limited and transient ; nay, it even feels 
a pleasure, a sense of an increased freedom 
and of an ampler future, in so doing. 

I remember, when I was under the influence 
of a mind to which I feel the greatest obliga- 
tions, the mind of a man who was the very 
incarnation of sanity and clear sense, a maa 
the most considerable, it seems to me, whom 
America has yet produced, — Benjamin 
Franklin, — I remember the relief with which, 
after long feeling the sway of Franklin's im- 
perturbable common-sense, I came upon a 
project of his for a new version of the Book of 
Job, to replace the old version, the style of 
which, says Franklin, has become obsolete, 
and thence less agreeable. "I give," he con- 
tinues, "a few verses, which may serve as a 
sample of the kind of version I would recom- 
mend." We all recollect the famous verse 

^ Jeremy Bentham (1748-183 2), founder of 
Utilitarianism, the doctrine that virtue consists 
in acting for the greatest happiness of the greatest 
number ^ Auguste Comte ( 1 798-1 85 7) , founder of 
Positivism, the doctrine that only the verifiable 
facts of existence are to be attended to in phi- 
losophy ^ mythical kings of Rome * a race 
incorporated with the Romans 



in our translation: "Then Satan answered 
the Lord and said: 'Doth Job fear God for 
nought?'" Franklin makes this: "Does 
your Majesty imagine that Job's good con- 
duct is the effect of mere personal attachment 
and affection?" I well remember how, when 
first I read that, I drew a deep breath of relief, 
and said to myself: "After all, there is a 
stretch of humanity beyond Franklin's vic- 
torious good sense!" So, after hearing 
Bentham cried loudly up as the renovator 
of modern society, and Bentham's mind 
and ideas proposed as the rulers of our 
future, I open the Deontology} There I read : 
"While Xenophon was writing his history and 
Euclid teaching geometry, Socrates and Plato 
were talking nonsense under pretence of talk- 
ing wisdom and morality. This morality of 
theirs consisted in words ; this wisdom of 
theirs was the denial of matters known to 
every man's experience." From the moment 
of reading that, I am delivered from the bond- 
age of Bentham ! the fanaticism of his adhe- 
rents can touch me no longer. I feel the in- 
adequacy of his mind and ideas for supplying 
the rule of human society, for perfection. 

Culture tends always thus to deal with the 
men of a system, of disciples, of a school ; 
with men like Comte, or the late Mr. Buckle, 
or Mr. Mill. 2 However much it may find to 
admire in these personages, or in some of 
them, it nevertheless remembers the text : 
"Be not ye called Rabbi !" and it soon passes 
on from any Rabbi. But Jacobinism loves a 
Rabbi ; it does not want to pass on from its 
Rabbi in pursuit of a future and still un- 
reached perfection ; it wants its Rabbi and his 
ideas to stand for perfection, that they may 
with the more authority recast the world; 
and for Jacobinism, therefore, culture, — 
eternally passing onwards and seeking, — is 
an impertinence and an offence. But culture, 
just because it resists this tendency of Jacobin- 
ism to impose on us a man with limitations 
and errors of his own along with the true ideas 
of which he is the organ, really does the world 
and Jacobinism itself a service. 

So, too, Jacobinism, in its fierce hatred of 
the past and of those whom it makes liable for 
the sins of the past, cannot away with the in- 
exhaustible indulgence proper to culture, the 
consideration of circumstances, the severe 

^ "The theory of what is proper" ^ ration- 
alistic philosophers 



CULTURE AND ANARCHY 



6oi 



judgment of actions joined to the merciful 
judgment of persons. "The man of culture 
is in politics," cries Mr. Frederic Harrison, 
"one of the poorest mortals alive!" Mr. 
Frederic Harrison wants to be doing business, 
and he complains that the man of culture stops 
him with a "turn for small fault-finding, love 
of selfish ease, and indecision in action." Of 
what use is culture, he asks, except for " a critic 
of new books or a professor of belles lettres" ? 
Why, it is of use because, in presence of the 
fierce exasperation which breathes, or rather, 
I may say, hisses through the whole produc- 
tion in which Mr. Frederic Harrison asks that 
question, it reminds us that the perfection of 
human nature is sweetness and light. It is 
of use because, like religion, — that other 
effort after perfection, — it testifies that, 
where bitter envying and strife are, there is 
confusion and every evil work. 

The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pur- 
suit of sweetness and light. He who works 
for sweetness and light, works to make reason 
and the will of God prevail. He who works 
for machinery, he who works for hatred, works 
only for confusion. Culture looks beyond 
machinery, culture hates hatred ; culture has 
one great passion, the passion for sweetness 
and light. It has one even yet greater ! — 
the passion for making them prevail. It is 
not satisfied till we all come to a perfect man ; 
it knows that the sweetness and light of the 
few must be imperfect until the raw and un- 
kindled masses of humanity are touched with 
sweetness and light. If I have not shrunk 
from saying that we must work for sweetness 
and light, so neither have I shrunk from saying 
that we must have a broad basis, must have 
sweetness and light for as many as possible. 
Again and again I have insisted how those are 
the happy moments of humanity, how those 
are the marking epochs of a people's life, how 
those are the flowering times for literature and 
art and all the creative power of genius, when 
there is a national glow of life and thought, 
when the whole of society is in the fullest 
measure permeated by thought, sensible to 
beauty, intelligent and alive. Only it must be 
real thought and real beauty; real sweetness 
and real light. Plenty of people will try to 
give the masses, as they call them, an intel- 
lectual food prepared and adapted in the way 
the}' think proper for the actual condition of 
the masses. The ordinary popular litera- 
ture is an example of this way of working on 



the masses. Plenty of people will try to in- 
doctrinate the masses with the set of ideas 
and judgments constituting the creed, of their 
own profession or party. Our rehgious and 
political organisations give an example of this 
way of working on the masses. I condemn 
neither way ; but culture works differently. 
It does not try to teach down to the level of 
inferior classes ; it does not try to win them 
for this or that sect of its own, with ready- 
made judgments and watchwords. It seeks 
to do away with classes ; to make the best 
that has been thought and known in the world 
current everywhere ; to make all men live in 
an atmosphere of sweetness and light, where 
they may use ideas, as it uses them itself, 
freely, — • nourished, and not bound by them. 
This is the social idea; and the men of cul- 
ture are the true apostles of equality. The 
great men of culture are those who have had 
a passion for diffusing, for making prevail, 
for carrying from one end of society to the 
other, the best knowledge, the best ideas of 
their time ; who have laboured to divest 
knowledge of all that was harsh, uncouth, 
diflicult, abstract, professional, exclusive ; to 
humanise it, to make it efficient outside the 
clique of the cultivated and learned, yet still 
reipaining the best knowledge and thought of 
the time, and a true source, therefore, of 
sweetness and light. Such a man was Abelard* 
in the Middle Ages, in spite of all his imper- 
fections ; and thence the boundless emotion 
and enthusiasm which Abelard excited. 
Such were Lessing^ and Herder^ in Germany, 
at the end of the last century; and their 
services to Germany were in this way in- 
estimably precious. Generations will pass, 
and literary monuments will accumulate, 
and works far more perfect than the works 
of Lessing and Herder will be produced in 
Germany ; and yet the names of these two 
men will fill a German with a reverence and 
enthusiasm such as the names of the most 
gifted masters will hardly awaken. And 
why? Because they humanised knowledge; 
because they broadened the basis of life and 
intelligence ; because they worked powerfully 
to diffuse sweetness and light, to make reason 
and the will of God prevail. With Saint 

^ Pierre Abelard (1079-1142), a brilliant 
teacher and philosopher ^ G. E. Lessing (1729- 
1781), famous German dramatist and critic 
3 J. G. von Herder (i 744-1803), poet and critic 



6o2 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Augustine they said : "Let us not leave thee 
alone to make in the secret of thy knowledge, 
as thou didst before the creation of the firma- 
ment, the division of hght from darkness ; let 
the children of thy spirit, placed in their 
firmament, make their light shine upon the 
earth, mark the division of night and day, and 
announce the revolution of the times ; for the 
old order is passed, and the new arises ; the 
night is spent, the day is come forth; and 
thou shalt crown the year -i^dth thy blessing, 
when thou shalt send forth labourers into thy 
harvest sown by other hands than theirs ; 
when thou shalt send forth new labourers to 
new seedtimes, whereof the harvest shall be 
not yet." 

SHAKESPEARE 

Others abide our question. Thou art free. 
We ask and ask : Thou smilest and art still. 
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill 
That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, 
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 
Making the Heaven of Heavens his dwelling- 
place, 
Spares but the cloudy border of his base 
To the foil'd searching of mortality : 
And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams 

know, 
Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self- 
secure, lO 
Didst walk on Earth unguess'd at. Better 

so ! 
All pains the immortal spirit must endure. 
All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, 
Find their sole voice in that victorious brow. 



THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 

Come, dear children, let us away; 

Down and away below. 
Now my brothers call from the bay ; 
Now the great winds shorewards blow ; 
Now the salt tides seawards flow ; 
Now the wild white horses play, 
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
Children dear, let us away. 
This way, this way. 

Call her once before you go. 

Call once yet. 
In a voice that she will know : 

' ' Margaret ! Margaret ! " 



Children's voices should be dear 
(Call once more) to a mother's ear : 
Children's voices, wild with pain. 

Surely she ■will come again. 
Call her once and come away. 

This way, this way. 
"Mother dear, we cannot stay." 20 

The wild white horses foam and fret. 

Margaret ! Margaret ! 

Come, dear children, come away down. 

Call no more. 
One last look at the white-wall'd town, 25 
And the little grey chiurch on the windy shore. 

Then come down. 
She will not come though j'-ou call all day. 

Come away, come away. 

Children dear, was it yesterday 30 

We heard the sweet beUs over the bay ? 

In the caverns where we lay, 

Through the surf and through the swell 
The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep. 
Where the -vvdnds are all asleep ; 
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam ; 
Where the salt weed sways in the stream ; 
Where the sea-beasts, rang'd all round, 
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; 40 
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine. 
Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 
Where great whales come sailing by, 
Sail and sail, with unshut eye, 
Round the world forever and aye ? 45 

When did music come this way ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 
(Call yet once) that she went away ? 
Once she sate with you and me, 50 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the 

sea. 
And the youngest sate on her knee. 
She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it 

well. 
When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. 
She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear 

green sea. 
She said : "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 
In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 
'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 
And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with 

thee."" 
I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the 
waves. 



TO MARGUERITE 



603 



Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea- 
caves." 61 
She smil'd, she went up through the surf 

in the bay. 
Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, were we long alone ? 
"The sea grows stormy, the Httle ones moan. 
Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say. 
Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in 

■the bay. 
We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white- 

wall'd town. 
Through the narrow pav'd streets, where all 
was still, 70 

To the little grey church on the windy hill. 
From the church came a murmur of folk at 

their prayers, 
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
We climb'd on the graves, on the stones, worn 

with rains, 
And we gaz'd up the aisle through the small 
leaded panes. 
She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
" Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here. 
Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone. 
The sea grows stormy, the little ones 
moan." 
But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80 

For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. 
Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door. 
Come away, children, call no more. 
Come away, come down, call no more. 

Down, down, down. 
Down to the depths of the sea. 
She sits at her wheel in the humming town. 

Singing most joyfully. 
Hark, what she sings ; "O joy, O joy, 
For the humming street, and the child with 

its toy. 
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well. 
For the wheel where I spun, 92 

And the blessed light of the sun." 
And so she sings her iill, 
Singing most joyfully. 
Till the shuttle falls from her hand, 
And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
She steals to the window, and looks at the 
sand ; 
And over the sand at the sea ; 
And her eyes are set in a stare ; lOo 

And anon there breaks a sigh, 
And anon there drops a tear, 



From a sorrow-clouded eye, 
And a heart sorrow-laden, 
A long, long sigh. 
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 
And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away, children. 

Come, children, come down. 

The salt tide rolls seaward. no 

Lights shine in the town. 

She will start from her slumber 

When gusts shake the door ; 

She will hear the winds howling, 

Will hear the waves roar. 

We shall see, while above us 

The waves roar and whirl, 

A ceiling of amber, 

A pavement of pearl. 

Singing, "Here came a mortal, 120 

But faithless was she. 

And alone dwell forever 

The kings of the sea." 

But, children, at midnight, 

When soft the winds blow ; 

When clear falls the moonlight ; 

When spring-tides are low ; 

When sweet airs come seaward 

From heaths starr'd with broom ; 

And high rocks throw mildly 130 

On the blanch'd sands a gloom : 

Up the still, glistening beaches, 

Up the creeks we will hie ; 

Over banks of bright seaweed 

The ebb-tide leaves dry. 

We will gaze, from the sand-hills. 

At the white, sleeping- town ; 

At the church on the hiU-side — 

And then come back down. 
Singing, "There dwells a lov'd one, 140 
But cruel is she. 
She left lonely forever 
The kings of the sea." 

TO MARGUERITE 

IN RETURNING A VOLUME OF THE 
LETTERS OF ORTIS^ 

Yes ! in the sea of life enisl'd,^ 

With echoing straits between us thrown, 

^ The Last Letters of Jacopo Orlis, a popular 
sentimental romance (1797) by Ugo Foscolo, an 
Italian poet and novelist ^ confined to islands 



6o4 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 

We mortal millions live alone. 

The islands feel the enclasping flow, 

And then their endless bounds they know. 6 

But when the moon their hollows lights, 
And they are swept by balms of spring. 
And in their glens, on starry nights, 
The nightingales divinely sing; 
And lovely notes, from shore to shore. 
Across the sounds and channels pour — 12 

Oh ! then a longing hke despair 

Is to their farthest caverns sent ; 

For surely once, they feel, we were 

Parts of a single continent ! 

Now round us spreads the watery plain — 

Oh might our marges meet again ! 18 

Who order'd, that their longing's fire 
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd ? 
Who renders vain their deep desire ? — 
A God, a God their severance rul'd ! 
And bade betwixt their shores to be 
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 24 

MORALITY 

We cannot kindle when we will 
The fire that in the heart resides, 
The spirit bloweth and is still. 
In mystery our soul abides : 

But tasks in hours of insight will'd 
Can be through hours of gloom fulfiU'd. 6 

With aching hands and bleeding feet 
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; 
We bear the burden and the heat 
Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. 

Not till the hours of light return, 
AU we have built do we discern. 1 2 

Then, when the clouds are off the soul, 
When thou dost bask in Nature's eye. 
Ask, how she view'd thy self-control. 
Thy struggling task'd morality — 

Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, 
Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. 18 

And she, whose censure thou dost dread. 
Whose eye thou wert afraid to seek. 
See, on her face a glow is spread, 
A strong emotion on her cheek. 

"Ah child," she cries, "that strife divine — 
Whence was it, for it is not mine? 24 



"There is no effort on my brow — 
I do not strive, I do not weep. 
I rush with the swift spheres, and glow 
In joy, and, when I wiU, I sleep. — 
Yet that severe, that earnest air 
I saw, I felt it once — but where ? 



30 



"I knew not yet the gauge of Time, 
Nor wore the manacles of Space. 
I felt it in some other clime — 
I saw it in some other place. 

— 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, 
And lay upon the breast of God." 36 



THE FUTURE 

A wanderer is man from his birth. 

He was born in a ship 

On the breast of the River of Time. 

Brimming with wonder and joy 

He spreads out his arms to the light. 

Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. 

As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. 
Whether he wakes 
Where the snowy mountainous pass 
Echoing the screams of the eagles 10 

Hems in its gorges the bed 

Of the new-born clear-flowing stream : 

Whether he first sees light 
Where the river in gleaming rings 

Sluggishly winds through the plain : 
Whether in sound of the swallowing sea : — 

As is the world on the banks 
So is the mind of the man. 

Vainly does each as he glides 

Fable and dream 20 

Of the lands which the River of Time 

Had left ere he woke on its breast, 

Or shall reach when his eyes have been 

clos'd. 
Only the tract where he sails 
He wots of : only the thoughts, 
Rais'd by the objects he passes, are his. 

Who can see the green Earth any more 
As she was by the sources of Time ? 
Who imagines her fields as they lay 
In the sunshine, unworn b}'' the plough? 30 
Who thinks as they thought, 
The tribes who then liv'd on her breast. 
Her vigorous primitive sons ? 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 



605 



What girl 
Now reads in her bosom as clear 
As Rebekah read, when she sate 
At eve by the palm-shaded well ? ^ 
Who guards in her breast 
As deep, as pellucid a spring 
Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure? 4° 

What Bard, 
At the height of his vision, can deem 
Of God, of the world, of the soul, 
With a plainness as near, 
As flashing as Moses felt. 
When he lay in the night by his flock 
On the starlit Arabian waste ? ^ 
Can rise and obey 
The beck of the Spirit hke him ? 

This tract which the River of Time 50 

Now flows through with us, is the Plain. 
Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. 
Border'd by cities and hoarse 
With a thousand cries is its stream. 
And we on its breast, our minds 
Are confused as the cries which we hear, 
Changing and shot as the sights which we 
see. 

And we say that repose has fled 

Forever the course of the River of Time. 

That cities will crowd to its edge 60 

In a blacker incessanter line ; 

That the din wiU be more on its banks, 

Denser the trade* on its stream. 

Flatter the plain where it flows, 

Fiercer the sun overhead ; 
That never wiU those on its breast 
See an ennobling sight. 
Drink of the feeUng of quiet again. 

But what was before us we know not, 
And we know not what shall succeed. 70 

Haply, the River of Time, 
As it grows, as the towns on its marge 
Fling their wavering lights 
On a wider, stateUer stream — 
May acquire, if not the calm 
Of its early mountainous shore, ' 
Yet a solemn peace of its own. 

And the width of the waters, the hush 
Of the grey expanse where he floats, 

^ cf. Genesis xxiv - cf. Exodus iii 



Freshening its current and spotted with foam 
As it draws to the Ocean, may strike 81 

Peace to the soul of the man on its breast : 
As the pale waste widens around him — 
As the banks fade dimmer away — 
As the stars come out, and the night-wind 
Brings up the stream 
Murmurs and scents of the infinite Sea. 

SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 
AN EPISODE 

And the first grey of morning fiU'd the east, 
And the fog rose out of the Oxus ^ stream. 
But all the Tartar camp along the stream 
Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in 

sleep : 
Sohrab alone, he slept not : aU night long 
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 
But when the grey dawn stole into his tent, 
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, 
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his 

tent. 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog, i o 

Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's ^ tent. 
Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, 

which stood 
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer floods o'erflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere : ^ 
Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that 

low strand. 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream's brink, the spot where first 

a boat. 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the 

land. 
The men of former times had crown'd the top 
With a clay fort : but that was fall'n ; and 

now 21 

The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 
A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. 
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and 

stood 
Upon the thick-pil'd carpets in the tent, 
And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. 
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 

^ the great river now called .\mu Daria, flowing 
between Afghanistan and Bokhara and emptying 
into the Aral Sea - leader of the Tartars ^ the 
plateau of Pamir (16,000 ft. high), where the Oxus 
has its source 



6o6 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Was dull'd; for he slept light, an old man's 

sleep ; 29 

And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : — 
"Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. 
Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?" 
But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : 
"Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa: it is I. 
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
Sleep ; but I sleep not ; all night long I lie 
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 
For so did King Af rasiab ^ bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son. 
In Samarcand, before the army march'd; 
And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 41 
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan^ first 
I came among the Tartars, and bore arms, 
I have still serv'd Afrasiab well, and shown, 
At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
This too thou know'st, that, while I still bear on 
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the 

world. 
And beat the Persians back on every field, 
I seek one man, one man, and one alone — 49 
Rustum, my father ; who, I hop'd, should 

greet, 
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought 

field 
His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
So I long hop'd, but him I never find. 
Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day : but I 
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 
To meet me, man to man : if I prevail, 
Rustum will surely hear it ; if I faU — 
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 
Dim is the rumour of a common ^ fight, 60 
Where host meets host, and many names are 

sunk: 
But of a single combat Fame speaks clear." 

He spoke : and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and 

said : — 
"O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs. 
And share the battle's common chance with us 
Who love thee, but must press forever first, 
In single fight incurring single risk, 
To find a father thou hast never seen ? 70 

Or, if indeed this one desire rules all. 
To seek out Rustum — seek him not through 

fight : 
Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 

^ king of the Tartars ^ the northwest province 
of Persia, west of the Caspian Sea ^ general 



O Sohrab, carry an un wounded son ! 
But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 
For now it is not as when I was young, 
When Rustum was in front of every fray: 
But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 
In Seistan,^ with Zal, his father old. 
Whether that his own mighty strength at last 
Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age; 81 
Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 
There go ! — Thou wilt not ? Yet my 

heart forebodes 
Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
Fain would I know thee safe and weU, though 

lost 
To us : fain therefore send thee hence, in 

peace 
To seek thy father, not seek single fights 
In vain : — but who can keep the lion's cub 
From ravening? and who govern Rustum's 

son? 
Go : I will grant thee what th)^ heart desires." 
So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand,'and 

left 91 

His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay, 
And o'er his chilly Umbs his woollen coat 
He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet, 
And threw a Vs^hite cloak round him, and he 

took 
In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword ; 
And on his head he placed his sheep-skin cap, 
Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul;^ 
And rais'd the curtain of his tent, and call'd 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 100 
The sun, by this, had rise*n, and clear'd the 

fog 
From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands : 
And from their tents the Tartar horsemen fil'd 
Into the open plain ; so Haman bade ; 
Haman, v/ho next to Peran-Wisa rul'd 
The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
From their black tents, long files of horse, they 

stream'd : 
As when, some grey November morn, the files 
In marching order spread, of long-neck'd 

cranes, 
Stream over Casbin,^ and the southern slopes 
Of Elburz, from the Aralian * estuaries, 1 1 1 
Or some frore ^ Caspian reed-bed, southward 

bound • 

^ a district in, south western Afghanistan, border- 
ing on Persia ^ a district of Bokhara noted for 
sheep, near the city of Bokhara ^ Kasbin, a city 
south of the Caspian Sea and the Elburz Moun- 
tains '^ belonging to the Aral Sea ^ frozen 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 



607 



For the warm Persian sea-board: so they 

stream'd. 
The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, 
First, with black sheep-skin caps and with 

long spears ; 
Large men, large steeds ; who from Bolchara 

come 
And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. ^ 
Next the more temperate Toorkmuns - of the 

south. 
The Tukas,^ and the lances of Salore, 119 

And those from Attruck ■* and the Caspian 

sands ; . 
Light men, and on light steeds, who only drink 
The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 
And then a swarm of wandering horse, who 

came 
From far, and a more doubtful service own'd ; 
The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
Of the Jaxartes,^ men with scanty beards 
And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder 

hordes 
Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern 

waste, 
Kalmuks and unkemp'd Kuzzaks,^ tribes who 

stray 
Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 
Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere. 131 
These all fil'd out from camp into the plain. 

And on the other side the Persians form'd : 
First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they 

seem'd, 
The Ilyats of Khorassan : ^ and behind. 
The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 
JNIarshal'd battahons bright in burnished steel. 

But Peran-Wisa with his herald came. 
Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, 
And with his staff kept back the foremost 

ranks. 
And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw 
That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 142 
He took his spear, and to the front he came, 
And check'd his ranks, and fix'd them where 

they stood. 
And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and 

said : — 

^ to make kumiss, an intoxicating drink 
^ Turcomans ^ the Tekke-Turcomans from Merv 
'^ the river Atrek, which flows into the Caspian 
Sea (at the southeast corner) " now the Syr 
Daria, which rises in northern Pamir and flows 
into the Aral Sea ® Cossacks " a desert district 
in northeastern Persia 



"Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, 
hear ! 
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 
But choose a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man." 
As, in the comrtry, on a morn in June, 151 
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
A shiver runs through the deep corn^ for 

joy — 
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran 
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they 
lov'd. 
But as a troop of peddlers, from Cabool,- 
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus,^ 
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk 
snow; 159 

Winding so high, that, as they mount, they 

pass 
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the 

snow, 
Chok'd by the air, and scarce can they them- 
selves 
Slake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mul- 
berries — 
In single file they move, and stop their breath, 
For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging 

snows — 
So the pale Persians held their breath with 
fear. 
And to Ferood his brother Chiefs came up 
To counsel : Gudurz and Zoarrah came. 
And Feraburz, who rul'd the Persian host 
Second, and was the uncle of the King: 170 
These came and counseU'd ; and then Gudurz 
said : — 
"Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge 

Yet champion have we none to match this 

youth. 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits 
And suUen, and has pitched his tents apart : 
Him wiU I seek, and carry to his ear 
The Tartar challenge, and this young man's 

name. 
Haply he wiU forget his wrath, and fight. 1 79 
Stand forth the while, and take their chal- 
lenge up." 
So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and 
said : 
"Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said. 

^ grain, not Indian corn - Kabul ^ the Hindu- 
Kush Mountains 



6o8 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man." 
He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and 

strode 
Back through the opening squadrons to his 

tent. 
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 
And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and 

reach'd, 
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay. 
Just pitch'd : the high pavilion in the midst 
Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd 

around. 191 

And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found 
Rustum : his morning meal was done, but still 
The table stood beside him, charg'd with food ; 
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, 
And dark green melons; and there Rustmn 

sate 
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 197 
And play'd with it ; but Gudurz came and 

stood 
Before him; and he look'd, and saw him 

stand ; 
And with a cry sprang up, and dropp'd the 

bird. 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and 

said : — 
"Welcome ! these eyes could see no better 

sight. 
What news? but sit down first, and eat and 

drink." 
But Gudurz stood in the tent door, and 

said : — ■ 
"Not now : a time will come to eat and drink. 
But not to-day : to-day has other needs. 
The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze : 
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight their champion — and thou know'st 

his name — 210 

Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! 
He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
And he is young, and Iran's Chiefs are old. 
Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose." 
He spoke : but Rustum answer 'd with a smile : 
"Go to ! if Iran's Chiefs are old, then I 
Am older : if the young are weak, the King 
Errs strangely : for the King, for Kai Khosroo, 
Himself is young, and honours younger men. 
And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 222 
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the 

young — 



The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's 

fame ? 
For would that I myself had such a son. 
And not that one slight helpless girl I have, 
A son so fam'd, so brave, to send to war. 
And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal,^ 
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, 230 
And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 
And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
There would I go, and hang my armour up, 
And with my great name fence that weak old 

man. 
And spend the goodly treasures I have got. 
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, 
And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, 
And with these slaughterous hands draw 

sword no more." 238 

He spoke, and smiled ; and Gudurz made 

reply : 
"What then, O Rustum, will men say to this. 
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and 

seeks 
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he 

seeks, 
Hidest thy face ? Take heed, lest men should 

say, 
'Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his 

fame. 
And shuns to peril it with younger men.' " 
And, greatly mov'd, then Rustum made reply: 
"O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such 

words ? 
Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
What is one more, one less, obscure or fam'd, 
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? 250 
Are not they mortal, am not I myself ? 
But who for men of nought would do great 

deeds? 
Come, thou shall see how Rustum hoards his 

fame. 
But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms; 
Let not men say of Rustum, he was match'd 
In single fight with any mortal man." 

He spoke and frown'd ; and Gudurz turn'd, 

and ran 257 

Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy. 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 
But Rustum strode to his tent door, and call'd 

^ Zal was at this time old, but according to tra- 
dition he was born with snow-white hair, on which 
account his father cast him out on the Elburz 
Mountains, where he was miraculously preserved 
by a griffin, cf. 11. 676-9. 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 



609 



His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, 
And clad himself in steel : the arms he chose 
Were plain, and on his shield was no device, 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 
And from the fluted spine atop, a plume 
Of horsehair wav'd, a scarlet horsehair plume. 
So arm'd, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his 

horse, 
Follow'd him, like a faithful hound, at heel, 
Ruksh, whose renown was nois'd through all 

the earth, 
The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once 270 
Did in Bokhara by the river find 
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 
And rear'd him ; a bright bay, with lofty 

crest ; 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green 
Crusted with gold, and on the ground were 

work'd 
All beasts of chase, aU beasts which hunters 

know : 
So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd 
The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd. 
And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts 
Hail'd ; but the Tartars knew not who he was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 281 

Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 
By sandy Bahrein,^ in the Persian Gulf, 
Plunging all day into the blue waves, at night. 
Having made up his tale ^ of precious pearls. 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 

And Rustum to the Persian front advanc'd, 
And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and came. 
And as afield the reapers cut a swathe 290 

Down through the middle of a rich man's corn, 
And on each side are squares of standing corn, 
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare ; 
So on each side were squares of men, with 

spears 
Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. 
And Rustum camie upon the sand, and cast 
His eyes towards the Tartar tents, and saw 
Sohrab come forth, and ey'd him as he came. 
As some rich woman, on a winter's morn. 
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor 

drudge * 300 

Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her 

fire — 
At cock-crow on a starlit winter's morn, 
When the frost flowers the whiten 'd window- 
panes — 

* an island famous for pearl-fisheries ^ required 
number 



And wonders how she lives, and what the 

thoughts 
Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rustum ey'd 
The unknown adventurous Youth, who from 

afar 
Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
All the most valiant chiefs : long he perus'd 
His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. 
For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd ; 
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and 

straight, 311 

Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, 
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — 
So slender Sohrab seem'd, so softly rear'd. 
And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul 
As he beheld him coming ; and he stood, 
And beckon'd to him with his hand, and said : 
"O thou young man, the air of Heaven is 

soft, 
And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold. 
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead 

grave. 
Behold me: I am vast, and clad in iron, 322 
And tried ; and I have stood on many a field 
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe : 
Never was that field lost, or that foe sav'd. 
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? 
Be govern'd : quit the Tartar host, and come 
To Iran, and be as my son to me, 
And fight beneath my banner till I die. 
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou." 
So he spake, mildly : Sohrab heard his 

voice, 331 

The mighty voice of Rustum ; and he saw 
His giant figure planted on the sand. 
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Has builded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, 
Streak'd with its first grey hairs : hope fill'd 

his soul ; 
And he ran forwards and embrac'd his knees, 
And clasp 'd his hand within his own and 

said : — 
"Oh, by thy father's h?ad ! by thine own 

soul ! 340 

Art thou not Rustum ? Speak ! art thou not 

he?" 
But Rustum ey'd askance the kneeling 

youth, 
And turn'd away, and spoke to his own soul : — 
"Ah me, I muse what this young fox may 

mean. 
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
For if I now confess this thing he asks, 



6io 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



And hide it not, but say, 'Rustmn is here,' 
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, 
But he -will find some pretext not to fight. 
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous 

gifts, 
A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 351 
And on a feast day, in Afrasiab's hall. 
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry : 
' I challeng'd once, when the two armies camp'd 
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
Shrank ; only Rustum dar'd : then he and I 
Chang'd gifts, and went on equal terms away.' 
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud. 
Then were the chiefs of Iran sham'd through 

me." 
And then he turn'd, and sternly spake 

aloud : — 
"Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question 

thus 
Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast 

call'd 
By challenge forth : make good thy vaunt, or 

yield. 364 

Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? 
Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee. 
For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 
Before thy face this day, and were reveal'd. 
There would be then no talk of fighting more. 
But being what I am, I tell thee this ; 370 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul : 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vatmt, and 

yield ; 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till 

winds 
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods, 
Oxus in summer wash them all away." 
He spoke : and Sohrab answer'd, on his 

feet : — 
"Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright me 

so. 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
Begin : thou art more vast, more dread than 

I, . • 382 

And thou art prov'd, I know, and I am 

young — 
But yet Success sways with the breath of 

Heaven. 
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest 

sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 



Pois'd on the top of a huge wave of Fate, 
Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. 
And whether it will heave us up to land, 390 
Or whether it will roll us out to sea. 
Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, ■ 
We know not, and no search will make us 

know : 
Only the event will teach us in its hour." 
He spoke ; and Rustum answer'd not, but 

hurl'd 
His spear : down from the shoiilder, down it 

came, 
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk 
That long has tower'd in the airy clouds 
Drops like a plummet : Sohrab saw it come. 
And sprang aside, quick as a flash : the spear 
Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the 

sand, 401 

Which it sent flying wide : — then Sohrab threw 
In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield : 

sharp rang, 
The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the 

spear. 
And Rustum seiz'd his club, which none but he 
Could wield : an unlopp'd trunk it was, and 

huge. 
Still rough; like those which men in treeless 

plains 
To build them boats fish from the flooded 

rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes,^ when, high up 
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
Has made in Himalayan forests wrack, 411 
And strewn the channels with torn boughs; 

so huge 
■ The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 
One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside 
Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's 

hand. 
And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and fell 
To his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the 

sand : 
And now might Sohrab have unsheath'd his 

sword, 
And pierc'd the mighty Rustum while he lay 
Dizzy, and on hiS knees, and chok'd with 

sand: 421 

But he look'd on, and smil'd, nor bar'd his 

sword, 
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and 

said : — 

^ rivers which rise in the highlands of Kashmir 
and flow into the Indus 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 



6ii 



"Thou strik'st too hard : that dub of thine 

will float 
Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. 
But rise, and be not wroth ; not wroth am I : 
No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 
Thou say'st thou art not Rustum : be it so. 
Who art thou then, that canst so touch my 

soul? 
Boy as I am, I have seen battles too ; 430 

Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, 
And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; 
But never was my heart thus touch'd before. 
Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the 

heart ? 
O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! 
Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, 
And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 
And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, 
And thou shaft talk to me of Rustum's deeds. 
There are enough foes in the Persian host 440 
Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no 

pang; 
Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
Mayst fight ; fight them, when they confront 

thy spear. 
But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me ! " 
He ceas'd : but wliile he spake, Rustum had 

risen. 
And stood erect, trembling with rage : his club 
He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear, 
Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-hand 
Blaz'd bright and baleful, like that autumn 

Star, 
The baleful sign of fevers :^ dust had soil'd 450 
His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering 

arms. 
His breast heav'd ; his lips foam'd ; and twice 

his voice 
Was chok'd with rage : at last these words 

broke way : — 
" Girl ! Nimble with thy feet, not with thy 

hands ! 
Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! 
Fight ; let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont 

to dance; 
But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and with me, who make no play 460 
Of war : I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine ! 
Remember all thy valour : try thy feints 

^ The belief that the stars caused epidemics 
was universal in ancient times. 



And cunning : all the pity I had is gone : 
Because thou hast sham'd me before both the 

hosts 
With thy Hght skipping tricks, and thy girl's 

wiles." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab kindled at his taimts, 
And he too drew his sword : at once they 

rush'd 
Together, as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the clouds, 
One from the east, one from the west : their 

shields 471 

Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
Make often in the forest's heart at morn. 
Of hewing axes, crashing trees : such blows 
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. 
And you would say that sun and stars took 

part 
In that unnatural ^ conflict ; for a cloud 
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sun 
Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose 480 
Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain. 
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 
In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they 

alone ; 
For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure. 
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot 

eyes 
And labouring breath ; first Rustum struck 

the shield 488 

Which Sohrab held stiff out : the steel-spik'd 

spear 
Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the 

skin, 
And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. 
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's 

helm. 
Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the 

crest 
He shore ^ away, and ■ that proud horsehair 

plume, 
Never till now defil'd, sank to the dust ; 
And Rustum bow'd his head ; but then the 

gloom 
Grew blacker : thunder rumbled in the air. 
And lightnings rend the cloud ; and Ruksh, 

the horse, 
Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry: 
No horse's cry was that , most like the roar 500 



^ because between father and son ^ sheared, 



cut 



6l2 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Of some pain'd desert lion, who all day 
Has trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side, 
And comes at night to die upon the sand : — • 
The two hosts heard that cry, and quak'd for 

fear, 
And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. 
But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd 

on. 
And struck again ; and again Rustum bow'd 
His head; but this time all the blade, like 

glass, 
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm. 
And in his hand the hilt remain'd alone. 510 
Then Rustum rais'd his head; his dreadful 

eyes 
Glar'd, and he shook on high his menacing 

spear. 
And shouted, "Rustum !" Sohrab heard that 

shout. 
And shrank amaz'd : back he recoil'd one step. 
And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing 

Form: 
And then he stood bewilder'd ; and he dropp'd 
His covering shield, and the spear pierc'd his 

side. 
He reel'd, and staggering back, sunk to the 

ground. 
And then the gloom dispers'd, and the wind 

fell, • 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
The cloud ; and the two armies saw the pair ; 
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 522 
And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. 

Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — ■ 
"Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse. 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
Or else that the great Rustum would come 

down 
Himself to iight, and that thy wiles would 

move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 530 
And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft , and spread thy fame, 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
Fool ! thou art slain, and by an unknown 

man ! 
Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be, 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." 

And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied : — 
"Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is 

vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful 

man ! 
No ! Rustum slays me, and this fihal heart. 



For were I match 'd with ten such men as thou. 
And I were he who tiU to-day I was, 542 
They should be lying here, I standing there. 
But that beloved name unnerv'd my arm — 
That name, and something, I confess, in thee. 
Which troubles all my heart, and made my 

shield 
Fall ; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. 
And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce Man, tremble to 

hear ! 549 

The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! 

My father, whom I seek through all the world, 

He shall avenge my death, and punish thee! " 

As when some hunter in the spring hath 

found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 
Upon the cfaggy isle of a hill-lake, 
And pierc'd her with an arrow as she rose, 
And foUow'd her to find her where she fell 
Far off ; — anon her mate comes winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 
His huddling young left sole; at that, he 

checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 561 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side. 
In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 
A heap of fluttering feathers : never more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 
Never the black and dripping precipices 
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by : ■ — 
As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his 

loss — 
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood 
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 572 
But, with a cold, incredulous voice, he 

said : — 
" What prate is this of fathers and revenge ? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son." 

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied : — 
"Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear. 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long. 
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from 

here ; 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 
Fierce Man, bethink thee, for an only son ! 
What will that grief, what will that vengeance 

be! _ _ _ 584 

Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen ! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her, 
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 



613 



With that old King, her father, who grows 

grey 
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 590 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp. 
With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 
But a dark rumour wUl be bruited up. 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; 
And then will that defenceless woman learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more ; 
But that in battle with a nameless foe. 
By the far distant Oxus, he is slain." 

He spoke ; and as he ceas'd he wept aloud. 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 600 
He spoke ; but Rustum listen'd, plung'd in 

thought. 
Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
Who spoke, although he call'd back names he 

knew ; 
For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, 
Had been a puny girl, no boy at all : 
So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
Rustum should take the boy, to train in arms ; 
And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took. 
By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son; 
Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
So deem'd he; yet he listen'd, plung'd in 
thought; 612 

And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 
At the full moon : tears gathered in his eyes 
For he remember'd his own early youth. 
And all its bounding rapture ; as, at dawn. 
The Shepherd from his mountain-lodge de- 
scries 
A far bright City, smitten by the sun, 
Through many rolling clouds ; — so Rustum 

saw 

His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her 

bloom; 621 

And that old King, her father, who lov'd well 

His wandering guest, and gave him his fair 

child 
With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led. 
They three, in that long-distant summer- 
time — 
The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
And hound, and morn on those delightful hiUs 
In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 
Of age and looks to be his own dear son, 
Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, 630 
Like some rich hyacinth, which by the scythe 
Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 
Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 



And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, 
On the mown, dying grass ; — so Sohrab lay, 
Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
And Rustum gaz'd on him with grief, and 

said : — 
" O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have 

lov'd! 
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 640 
Have told thee false ; — thou art not Rustum's 

son. 
For Rustum had no son : one child he had — 
But one — a girl : who with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war." 
But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath ; for now 
The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew 

fierce. 
And he desired to draw forth the steel, 
And let the blood flow free, and so to^die; 
But first he would convince his stubborn foe — 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : — 651 
"Man, who art thou who dost deny my 

words ? 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, 
And Falsehood, while I liv'd, was far from 

mine. 
I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm I bear 
That seal which Rustum to my mother gave. 
That she might prick it on the babe she bore." 
He spoke : and all the blood left Rustum's 

cheeks ; 
And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand, 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 660 
That the hard iron corslet clank'd aloud : 
And to his heart he press'd the other hand 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : — 
" Sohrab, that were a proof which could not 

lie. 
If thou shew this, then art thou Rustum's 

son." 
Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab 

loos'd 
His belt, and near the shoulder bar'd his arm. 
And shew'd a sign in faint vermilion points 
Prick'd: as a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain 

vase, 
An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, 
And all day long, and, when night comes, the 

lamp 672 

Lights up his studious forehead and thin 

hands : — 
So delicately prick'd the sign appcar'd 
On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. 



6i4 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



It was that Griffin, which of old rear'd Zal, 
Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 
A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks. 
Him that kind Creature found, and rear'd, and 

lov'd — 
Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 
And Sohrab bar'd that figure on his arm, 68i 
And himself scann'd it long with mournful 

eyes, 
And then he touch'd it with his hand and 

said : — • 
"How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper 

sign 
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?" 
He spoke : but Rustum gaz'd, and gaz'd, 

and stood 
Speechless; and then he utter'd one sharp 

cry — 
"O Boy — thy Father!" — and his voice 

chok'd there. 
And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes, 
And his head swam, and he sank down to 

earth. 690 

But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast 
His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips, 
And with fond faltering fingers strok'd his 

cheeks, 
Trying to call him back to life : and life 
Came back to Rustum, and he op'd his eyes. 
And they stood wide with horror ; and he 

seiz'd 
In both his hands the dust which lay around. 
And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his 

hair. 
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering 

arms : 
And strong convulsive groanings shook his 

breast, 
And his sobs chok'd him ; and he clutch'd his 

sword, 701 

To draw it, and forever let life out. 
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his 

hands, 
And with a soothing voice he spoke, and 

said : — 
"Father, forbear: for I but meet to-day 
The doom that at my birth was written down 
In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious 

hand. 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou. 
When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke 

too, 
I know it : but Fate trod those promptings 

down 710 

Under its iron heel; Fate, Fate engag'd 



The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear. 
But let us speak no more of this : I find 
My father ; let me feel that I have found. 
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my 

cheeks. 
And wash them with thy tears, and say : 'My 

son ! ' 
Quick ! quick ! for number'd are my sands of 

Kfe, 
And swift ; for hke the lightning to this field 
I came, and like the wind I go away — 720 
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. 
But it was writ in Heaven that this should be." 
So said he : and his voice releas'd the heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, 
And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the 

hosts 
V/hen they saw Rustum's grief : and Ruksh, 

the horse, 
With his head bowing to the ground, and mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute 

woe 
First to the one, then to the other mov'd 730 
His head, as if inquiring what their grief 
Might mean ; and from his dark, compassion- 
ate eyes 
The big warm tears roU'd down, and cak'd the 

sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and 

said : — 
"Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh, 

thy feet 
Should then have rotted on their nimble joints, 
When first they bore thy Master to this field." 
But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and 

said : — 
"Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past 

days, 739 

My mother told me of thee, thou brave Steed ! 
My terrible father's terrible horse ; and said, 
That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane. 
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; 
For thou hast gone where I shall never go. 
And snuft"'d the breezes of my father's home. 
And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 
And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake 
Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself 
Has often strok'd thy neck, and given thee 

food, 
Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, 751 
And said — ' O Ruksh ! bear Rustum well ! ' — 

but I 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 



615 



Have never known my grandsire's furrow'd 

face, 
Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
Nor slak'd my thirst at the clear Helmund 

stream : 
But lodg'd among my father's foes, and seen 
Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 
And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only 

drunk 
The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 760 
Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their 

sheep, 
The northern Sir ; ^ and this great Oxus 

stream — 
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." 
And, with a heavy groan, Rustum re- 
plied : — 
"Oh that its waves were flowing over me ! 
Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head !" 
And, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab re- 
plied : — 
"Desire not that, my father : thou must live. 
For some are born to do great deeds, and live, 
As some are born to be obscur'd, and die. 771 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 
And reap a second glory in thine age. 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come : thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these : 
Let me entreat for them : what have they 

done ? 
They foUow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
But me thou must bear hence, not send with 

them. 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 781 

And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, 
Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all thy 

friends. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above my bones. 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all : 
That so the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and say — 
'Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there. 
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill' — 
And I be not forgotten in my grave." 791 
And, with a mournful voice, Rustum re- 
plied : — 
" Fear not ; as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son. 
So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents, 

' Syr Daria, cf. 1. 129 



And quit the host, and bear thee hence with 

me. 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth. 
And heap a stately mound above thy bones. 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all : Sox 

And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 
And I will spare thy host : yea, let them go : 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
What should I do with slaying any more? 
For would that all whom I have ever slain 
Might be once more alive ; my bitterest foes, 
And they who were call'd champions in their 

time. 
And through whose death I won that fame I 

have; 
And I were nothing but a common man, 810 
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown ; 
So thou mightest live too, my Son, my Son ! 
Or rather would that I, even I myself. 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, 
Not thou of mine ; and I might die, not thou ; 
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 
And Zal might weep above my grave, not 

thine ; 
And say — ■ '0 son, I weep thee not too sore, 
For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end.' 
But now in blood and battles was my youth, 
And full of blood and battles is my age ; 822 
And I shall never end this life of blood." 
Then, at the point of death, Sohrab re- 
plied : — 
"A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful JMan ! 
But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now ; 
Not yet : but thou shalt have it on that day, 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted Ship, 
Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, 
Returning home over the salt blue sea. 
From laying thy dear Master in his grave." 
And Rustum gazed on Sohrab 's face, and 

said : — 832 

" Soon be that day, my Son, and deep that sea ! 
Till then, if Fate so wills, let me endure." 
He spoke ; and Sohrab smil'd on him, and 

took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
His wound's imperious anguish : but the blood 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flow'd with the stream : aU down his cold 

white side 
The crimson torrent pour'd, dim now and 

soil'd. 



6i6 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



Like the soil'd tissue of white violets 841 

Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, 
By romping children, whom their nurses call 
From the hot fields at noon : his head droop'd 

low. 
His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he 

lay — 
White, with eyes clos'd; only when heavy 

gasps. 
Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his 

frame, 
Convuls'd him back to life, he open'd them, 
And fix'd them feebly on his father's face : 
TiU now all strength was ebb'd, and from his 

limbs 
Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 851 

Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 
And youth and bloom, and this delightful 

world. 
So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead. 
And the great Rustum drew his horseman's 

cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd 
By Jemshid^ in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now, 'mid their broken flights of 

steps, 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain 

side — 860 

So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 

And night came down over the solemn 

waste, 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 
And darken'd aU ; and a cold fog, with night, 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog : for now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took their 

meal: 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward ; the Tartars by the river marge : 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 871 

But the majestic River floated on. 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land. 
Into the frosty starlight, and there mov'd. 
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian^ 

waste, 
Under the solitary moon : he flow'd 
Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunje,^ 

^ a mythical king who reigned 700 j^ears ; the 
black granite pillars found at Persepolis in Persia 
are called the ruins of his throne ^ Chorasmia 
on the Oxus was once the seat of a great empire. 
' a village on the Oxus 



Brimming, and bright, and large : then sands 

begin 
To hem his watery march, and dam his 

streams. 
And split his currents ; that for many a league 
The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — 
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 883 
In his high mountain cradle in Pamere, 
A foil'd circuitous wanderer : — till at last 
The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and 

wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath'd 

stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 

PHILOMELA 

Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! ^ 

The tawny-throated ! 

Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 

What triumph ! hark — • what pain ! 

O Wanderer from a Grecian shore. 
Still, after many years, in distant lands, 
StiU nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain 
That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old- 
world pain — 

Say, will it never heal? 
And can this fragrant lawn 10 

With its cool trees, and night. 
And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
And moonshine, and the dew. 
To thy rack'd heart and brain 

Afford no balm? 

Dost thou to-night behold 
Here, through the moonlight on this English 

grass, 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? 

Dost thou again peruse 
With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 20 

The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister's 
shame ? 
Dost thou once more assay 
Thy flight, and feel come over thee. 
Poor Fugitive, the feathery change 
Once more, and once more seem to make re- 
sound 

^ Cf . the other nightingale poems in this volume 
and the story of Philomela in Gayley's Classic 
Myths, p. 258. 



THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 



617 



With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? 

Listen, Eugenia — • 
How thick the bursts come crowding through 
the leaves ! 

Again — thou hearest ! 30 

Eternal Passion ! 
Eternal Pain ! 



THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 

Go, for the}^ call you, Shepherd, from the hill ; 
Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes :^ 
No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, 
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their 
throats. 
Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another 
head. 
But when the fields are still, 
And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest. 
And only the white sheep are sometimes 

seen 
Cross and recross the strips of moon- 
blanch'd green ; 9 

Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest. 

Here, where the reaper was at work of late. 
In this high field's dark corner, where he 
leaves 
His coat, his basket, and his earthen 
cruse ,^ 
And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, 
Then here, at noon, comes back his stores 
to use ; 
Here will I sit and wait, 
\Vhile to my ear from uplands far away 17 
The bleating of the folded flocks is borne ; 
With distant cries of reapers in the corn — 
All the live murmur of a summer's day. 

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd 
field, 
And here till sun-down. Shepherd, will I be. 
Through the thick corn,^ the scarlet 
poppies peep, 
And round green roots and yellowing stalks 
I see 
Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep : 
And air-swept lindens yield 
Their scent, and rustle down their perfum'd 
showers 

' sheepfolds built of woven boughs : the gates 
were tied up ^ water-jug ^ grain 



Of bloom on the bent grass where I am 

laid, 
And bower me from the August sun with 

shade ; 29 

And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. 

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book^ — 
Come, let me read the oft-read tale again, 

The story of that Oxford scholar poor, 
Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain. 
Who, tired of knocking at Preferment's 
door. 
One summer morn forsook 
His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore, 
And roam'd the world with that wild 

brotherhood. 
And came, as most men deem'd, to little 
good, _ 39 

But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 

But once, years after, in the country lanes. 
Two scholars whom at college erst he knew 
Met him, and of his way of life enquir'd. 
Whereat he answer'd, that the Gipsy crew. 
His mates, had arts to rule as they desir'd 
The workings of men's brains ; 
And they can bind them to what thoughts 
they will : 
"And I," he said, "the secret of their art, 
When fully learn'd, will to the world 
impart : 49 

But it needs happy moments for this skill." 

This said, he left them, and return'd no more. 
But rumours hung about the country side 
That the lost Scholar long was seen to 
stray, 
Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue- 
tied. 
In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, 
The same the Gipsies wore. 
Shepherds had met him on the Hurst - ih 
spring : 
At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire 

moors. 
On the warm ingle bench,-' the smock- 
frock'd boors ' 
Had found him seated at their entering. 60 

^ The Vanity of Dogmaliziihg, by Joseph Glanvil 
(i66i), contains the story on which this poem 
is based. - Cumner Hurst, a hill southwest of 
O.xford ^ bench in the chimney-corner ■• farm- 
laborers in smock-frocks (outer garments like 
shirts or blouses) 



6i8 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly : 
And I myself seem half to know thy looks. 
And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy 
trace ; 
And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the 
rooks 
I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place ; 
Or in my boat I lie 
Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer 
heats, 
'Mid wide grass meadows which the sun- 
shine fills, 
And watch the warm green-muffled 
Cumner hills, 
And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy 
retreats. 70 

For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground. 
Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, 
Returning home on summer nights, have 
met 
Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock- 
hithe,! 
Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet. 
As the slow punt " swings round : 
And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, 
And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers 
Pluck'd in shy fields and distant wood- 
land bowers. 
And thine eyes resting on the moonlit 
stream. 80 

And then they land, and thou art seen no more. 
Maidens who from the distant hamlets come 
To dance ^ around the Fyfield elm in May, 
Oft through the darkening fields have seen 
thee roam. 
Or cross a stile into the public way. 
Oft thou hast given them store 
Of flowers — the frail-leaf'd, white anem- 
one — 
Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of 

summer eves — 
And purple orchises with spotted leaves — 
But none has words she can report of 
thee. 90 

And, above Godstow Bridge,^ when hay-time's 
here 
In Jime, and many a scythe in sunshine 
flames, 

^ a village four miles from Oxford ^ a kind of 
boat much used on the Thames ^ the Maypole 
dance * two miles above Oxford 



Men who through those wide fields of 
breezy grass 
Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the 
glittering Thames, 
To bathe in the abandon'd lasher^ pass, 
Have often pass'd thee near 
Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown : 
Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure 

spare, 
Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted 
air; 
But, when they came from bathing, thou 
wert gone. 100 

At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills. 

Where at her open door the housewife darns, 

Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate 

To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. 

Children, who early range these slopes and 

late 

For cresses from the rills, 

Have known thee watching, all an April day, 

The springing pastures and the feeding 

kine ; 
And mark'd thee, when the stars come 
out and shine, 
Through the long dewy grass move slow 
away. no 

In Autumn, on the ^kirts of Bagley Wood — 
Where most the gipsies by the turf-edg'd 
way 
Pitch their smok'd tents, and every bush 
you see 
With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of 
grey, 
Above the forest-ground called Thessa.ry — 
The blackbird picking food ■ 
Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at 
all; 
So often has he known thee past him stray. 
Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd 
spray, 
And waiting for the spark from Heaven 
to fall. 120 

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill 
Where home through flooded fields foot- 
traveUers go. 
Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden 
bridge 
Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the 
snow, 

^ the pool of slack water below a dam 



THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 



619 



Thy face towards Hinksey ^ and its wintry 
ridge ? 
And thou hast cUmbed the hill, 
And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner 
range, 
Turn'd once to watch, while thick the 

snowflakes fall, 
The line of festal Hght in Christ-Church- 
hall — 
Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd 
grange. 130 

But what — I dream ! Two hiindred years 
are flown 
Since first thy story ran through Oxford 
haUs, 
And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 
That thou wert wander'd from the studious 
walls 
To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy 
tribe : 
And thou from earth art gone 
Long since, and in some quiet churchyard 
laid; 
Some country nook, where o'er thy im- 

known grave 
Tall grasses and white flowering nettles 
wave — 
Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's 
shade. 140 

— No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of 
hours. 
For what wears out the life of mortal men? 
'Tis that from change to change their 
being rolls : 
'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, 
Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, 
And numb the elastic powers. 
Till having us'd our nerves with bliss and 
teen,^ 
And tir'd upon a thousand schemes our 

wit, 
To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
Our worn-out hfe, and are — what we 
have been. 150 

Thou hast not liv'd, why should'st thou perish, 
so? 
Thou hadst mie aim, one business, one desire : 
Else wert thou long since number'd with 
the dead — 

^ a neighboring village ^ one of the largest 
and richest colleges of Oxford ^ sorrow 



Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy 
fire. 
The generations of thy peers are fled, 
And we ourselves shall go ; 
But thou possessest an immortal lot. 
And we imagine thee exempt from age 
And living as thou hv'st on Glanvil's page, 
Because thou hadst — what we, alas, have 
not ! 160 

For early didst thou leave the world, with 
powers 
Fresh, undiverted to the world without. 
Firm to their mark, not spent on other 
things ; 
Free from the sick fatigue, the languid 
doubt. 
Which much to have tried, in much been 
baffled, brings. 
O Life vmlike to ours ! 
Who fluctuate idly without term or scope. 
Of whom each strives, nor knows for what 

he strives, 
And each half hves a hundred different 
lives ; 
Who wait Like thee, but not, like thee, in 
hope. 170 

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven : and 
we. 
Light half-believers of our casual creeds, 

Who never deeply felt, nor clearly wiU'd, 
Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, 
Whose vague resolves never have been 
fulfiU'd; 
For whom each year we see 
Breeds new beginnings, disappointments 
new; 
Who hesitate and falter Hfe away, 
And lose to-morrow the ground won to- 
day — 
Ah, do not we. Wanderer, await it too? 180 

Yes, we await it, but it stiU delays. 

And then we suffer ; and amongst us One, 
Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly 
His seat upon the intellectual throne ; 
And aU his store of sad experience he 
Lays bare of wretched daj's ; 
Tells us his misery's birth and growth and 
signs, 
And how the dying spark of hope was fed, 
And how the breast was sooth 'd, and how 
the head. 
And all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 



620 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



This for our wisest : and we others pine, 
And wish the long unhappy dream would 
end, 
And waive all claim to bliss, and try to 
bear; 
With close-lipp'd Patience for our only 
friend, 
Sad Patience, too near neighbour to De- 
spair : 
But none has hope like thine. 
Thou through the fields and through the 
woods dost stray, 197 

Roaming the country side, a truant boy, 
Nursing thy project in unclouded joy. 
And every doubt long blown by time away. 

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, 
And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames ; 
Before this strange disease of modern life, 
With its sick hurry, its divided aims, 
Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was 
rife — 
Fly hence, our contact fear ! 
Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering 
wood ! 
Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
From her false friend's^ approach in Hades 
turn, 209 

Wave us away, and keep thy solitude. 

Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 
StiU. clutching the inviolable shade, 
With a free outward impulse brushing 
through. 
By night, the silver 'd branches of the 
glade — 
Far on the forest skirts, where none pur- 
sue, 
On some mUd pastoral slope 216 

Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales. 
Freshen thy flowers, as in former years. 
With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, 
From the dark dingles,- to the nightingales. 

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly ! 
For strong the infection of our mental strife, 
Which, though its gives no bliss, yet spoils 
for rest ; 
And we should win thee from thy own fair 
life, 
Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 
Soon, soon thy cheer would die, 

^ ^neas, cf. yEneid, VI, 450-71, or Gayley, 
p. 348 ^ small wooded valleys 



Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy 
powers. 
And thy clear aims be cross and shifting 

made : 
And then thy glad perennial youth would 
fade, 229 

Fade, and grow old at last and die like ours. 

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and 
smiles ! 
— As some grave Tyrian trader, from the 
sea, 
Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers ^ stealthily. 
The fringes of a southward-facing brow 
Among the iEgean isles ; 
And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, 
Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian 

wine,^ 
Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd 
in brine ; 
And knew the intruders on his ancient 
home, • 240 

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves; 
And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out 
more sail. 
And day and night held on indignantly 
O'er the blue Midland^ waters with the gale, 
Betwixt the Syrtes"* and soft Sicily, 
To where the Atlantic raves 
Outside the Western Straits ; ^ and unbent 
sails 
There, where down cloudy cliffs, through 
sheets of foam, . 248 

Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians ® come ; 
And on the beach undid his corded bales. 

THE LAST WORD 

Creep into thy narrow bed. 

Creep, and let no more be said ! 

Vain thy onset ! aU stands fast. 

Thou thyself must break at last. 4 

Let the long contention cease ! 

Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 

Let them have it how they will ! 

Thou art tired ; best be stiU. 8 

^ vines hanging down from a cliff over the sea 
^ wine of Chios, a Greek island ^ Mediterranean 
^ the gulfs of Sidra and Gabes on the north coast 
of Africa ^ the Straits of Gibraltar ^ a race in- 
habiting the Spanish peninsula and, at this time, 
parts of the British Islands 



EDWARD FITZGERALD 



621 



They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee ! 

Better men fared thus before thee ; 

Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, 

Hotly charged — and sank at last. 1 2 

Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 

Let the victors, when they come, 

When the forts of folly fall. 

Find thy body by the wall. 16 



EDWARD FITZGERALD 

(1809-1883) 

From THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR 
KHAYYAM 

VII 

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring 
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling: 
The Bird of Time has but a little way 
To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing. 

VIII 

Whether at Naishapur^ or Babylon,^ 
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run. 
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by 
drop. 
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one. 

rx 

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you 

say; 
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday ? 
And this first Svunmer month that brings 
the Rose 
Shall take Jamshyd ^ and Kaikobad ^ away. 



XII 

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou 

Beside me singing in the Wilderness — 
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow ! 

^ an ancient city in northeast Persia ^ in 

southwest Persia ^ cf. note on Sohrah and 

Riistum, 1. 858 ■• a predecessor of Kai Kosru, 
cf. Sohrab and Riistum, 1. 220 



XIII 

Some for the Glories of This World ; and some 
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come ; 

Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, 
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum ! 



XVI 

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon 
Turns Ashes — • or it prospers ; and anon, 

Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, 
Lighting a little hour or two — was gone. 

XVII 

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai 
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, 

How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp 
Abode his destin'd Hour, and went his way. 

XVIII 

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep 

The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank 

deep: 
And Bahram, that great Hunter — the Wild 

Ass 
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his 

Sleep. 



XXIV 

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend. 
Before we too into the Dust descend ; 

Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie, 
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and — sans 
End! 



xxvn 

Myself when young did eagerly frequent 
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument 

About it and about : but evermore 
Came out by the same door where in I went. 

XXVIII 

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow. 
And with mine own hand wrought to make it 
grow ; 
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd— 
"I came like Water, and Hke Wind I go." 



622 



EDWARD FITZGERALD 



XXIX 

Into this Universe, and Why not knowing 
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing; 

And out of it, as Wind along the Waste, 
I know not Whither, wUly-nilly blowing. 

XXX 

What, without asking, hither hurried Whence ? 
And, without asking. Whither hurried hence ! 

Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine 
Must drown the memory of that insolence ! 

XXXI 

Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh 

Gate 
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn^ sate, 

And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road ; 
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate. 

XXXII 

There was the Door to which I found no Key ; 
There was the Veil through which I could not 

see: 
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee 
There was — and then no more of Thee and 

Me.2 



XLIX 

Would you that spangle of Existence spend 
About the Secret — quick about it. Friend ! 
A Hair perhaps divides the False and 
True— , 
And upon what, prithee, does life depend? 



A Hair perhaps divides the False and True ; 
Yes ; and a single Alif ^ were the clue — 
Could you but find it — to the Treasure- 
house, 
And peradventure to the Master too ; 

^ In the old astronomy Saturn is lord of the 
seventh sphere or heaven. ^ the individual per- 
sonalities being absorbed in the absolute One 
' the vowel a, represented by a minute symbol, the 
presence or absence of which would change the 
meaning of a word 



LI 

Whose secret Presence, through Creation's 

veins 
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains ; 

Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi ; ^ and 
They change and perish all — but He remains ; 

LII 

A moment guess'd — then back behind the 

Fold 
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roU'd 

Which, for the Pastime of Eternity, 
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold. 



LXVI 

I sent my Soul through the Invisible 
Some letter of that After-life to spell : 

And by and by my Soul return'd to me. 
And answer'd, "I Myself am Heav'n and 
HeU:" 

LXVII 

Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire, 
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire. 

Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves, 
So late emerg'd from, shall so soon expire. 

LXVIII 

We are no other than a moving row 

Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go 

Round with the Sun-iUumin'd Lantern^ held 
In Midnight by the Master of the Show ; 

LXIX 

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays 
Upon this Checker-board of Nights and Days ; 
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and 
slays. 
And one by one back in the Closet lays. 

LXX 

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes, 
But Right or Left as strikes the Player goes ; 
And He that toss'd you down into the Field, 
He knows about it all — He knows — HE 
knows ! 

^ from fish to moon ^ a crude sort of moving 
picture show made by a revolving cylinder with 
figures painted on its translucent sides and a 
candle at the centre 



COVENTRY PATMORE 



623 



LXXI 

The Moving Finger writes ; and, having writ, 
Moves on : nor all your Piety nor Wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line 
Nor aU your Tears wash out a Word of it. 



XCVI 

Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the 

Rose ! 
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should 

close ! 
The Nightingale that in the branches sang. 
Ah whence, and whither flown again, who 

knows ! 

XCVII 

Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield 
One glimpse — if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd, 
To which the fainting Traveller might 
spring, 
As springs the trampled herbage of the field ! 

xcvni 

Would but some winged Angel ere too late 
Arrest the yet unfolded RoU of Fate, 

And make the stern Recorder otherwise 
Enregister, or quite obhterate ! 

XCIX 

Ah Love ! could you and I with Him conspire 
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire. 
Would not we shatter it to bits — and then 
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's desire ! 



COVENTRY PATMORE 

(1823-1896) 

From THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE 

BOOK I, CANTO III. PRELUDES 
I. The Lover 

He meets, by heavenly chance express, 
The destined maid ; some hidden hand 

Unveils to him that lovehness 
Which others cannot understand. 

His merits in her presence grow, 5 

To match the promise in her eyes, 



And round her happy footsteps blow 

The authentic airs of Paradise. 
For joy of her he cannot sleep, 

Her beauty haunts him all the night ; 10 
It melts his heart, it makes him weep 

For wonder, worship, and delight. 
O, paradox of love, he longs, 

Most humble when he most aspires. 
To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs 15 

From her he honours and desires. 
Her graces make him rich, and ask 

No guerdon ; this imperial style 
Affronts him ; he disdains to bask. 

The pensioner of her priceless smile. 20 

He prays for some hard thing to do. 

Some work of fame and labour immense. 
To stretch the languid bulk and thew 

Of love's fresh-born magnipotence. 
No smallest boon were bought too dear, 25 

Though bartered for his love-sick hfe ; 
Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer. 

To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife. 
He notes how queens of sweetness still 

Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate ; 
How, self-consign'd with lavish will, 31 

They ask but love proportionate ; 
How swift pursuit by small degrees, 

Love's tactic, works Hke miracle ; 
How valour, clothed in courtesies, 35 

Brings down the loftiest citadel ; 
And therefore, though he merits not 

To kiss the braid upon her skirt, 
His hope discouraged ne'er a jot, 

Out-soars all possible desert. 40 

BOOK I, CANTO VIII. PRELUDES 
I. Life of Life 

What's that, which, ere I spake, was gone: 

So joj^ful and intense a spark 
That, whilst o'erhead the wonder shone. 

The day, before but dull, grew dark ? 
I do not know ; but this I know, 5 

That, had the splendour lived a year. 
The truth that I some heavenly show 

Did see, could not be now more clear. 
This know I too : might mortal breath 

Express the passion then inspired, 10 

Evil would die a natural death. 

And nothing transient be desired ; 
And error from the soul would pass, 

And leave the senses pure and strong 
As sunbeams. But the best, alas, 15 

Has neither memory nor tongue ! 



624 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 



II. The Revelation 

An idle poet, here and there, 

Looks round him ; but, for all the rest. 
The world, unfathomably fair, 

Is duller than a witling's jest. 
Love wakes men, once a life-time each ; 5 

They lift their heavy lids and look ; 
And, lo, what one sweet page can teach. 

They read with joy, then shut the book. 
And some give thanks, and some blaspheme. 

And most forget ; but, either way, 10 

That and the Child's unheeded dream 

Is aU the hght of all their day. 



III. The Spirit's Epochs 

Not in the crises of events. 

Of compass'd hopes, or fears fulfill'd, 
Or acts of gravest consequence. 

Are life's delight and depth reveal'd. 
The day of days was not the day ; 5 

That went before, or was postponed ; 
The night Death took our lamp away 

Was not the night on which we groaned. 
I drew my bride, beneath the moon, 

Across my threshold ; happy hour ! 10 

But, ah, the walk that afternoon 

We saw the water-flags in flower ! 



And -two French copper coins, ranged there 
with careful art, 20 

To comfort his sad heart. 
So when that night I pray'd 
To God, I wept, and said : 
" Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath. 
Not vexing Thee in death-, 25 

And Thou rememberest of what toys 
We made our joys. 
How weakly understood 
Thy great commanded good, 
Then, fatherly not less 30 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the 

clay, 
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 
'I will be sorry for their childishness.'" 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

(1828-1882) 

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 

The blessed damozel ^ leaned out 

From the gold bar of Heaven ; 
Her eyes were deeper than the depth 

Of waters stilled at even ; 
She had three lilies in her hand. 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 6 



From THE UNKNOWN EROS 

THE TOYS 

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful 

eyes 
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise. 
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, 
I struck him, and dismiss'd 
With hard words and unkiss'd, — 5 

His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 
I visited his bed. 
But found him slumbering deep. 
With darken 'd eyelids, and their lashes yet 10 
From his late sobbing wet. 
And I, with moan. 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own ; 
For, on a table drawn beside his head, 
He had put, within his reach, 15 

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, 
A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 
And six or seven shells, 
A bottle of bluebells, 



Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn, 

But a white rose of Mary's gift. 
For service meetly worn ; 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Herseemed^ she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers ; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years. 

. . . Yet now, and in this place. 
Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 

Fell all about my face. . . . 
Nothing : the autumn fall of leaves. 

The whole year sets apace.) 

It was the rampart of God's house 
That she was standing on ; 

^ lady " It seemed to her 



18 



24 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 



625 



By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun ; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 30 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 36 

Around her, lovers, newly met 

'Mid deathless love's acclaims, 
Spoke evermore among themselves 

Their heart-remembered names ; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 42 

And still she bowed herself and stooped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm. 
And the lihes lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 48 

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 54 

The sun was gone now ; the curled moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far down the gulf ; and now 

She spoke through the stiU weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sang together.^ 60 

(Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, 

Strove not her accents there, 
Fain to be hearkened ? When those bells 

Possessed the mid-day air, 
Strove not her steps to reach my side 

Down all the echoing stair?) 66 

"I wish that he were come to me, 

For he wiU come," she said. 
"Have I not prayed in Heaven? — on earth, 

Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 

And shaU I feel afraid ? 72 

^ Cf. note on ^Milton's Ilymn on the Nativity, 
1. 119. 



"When round his head the aureole clings. 

And he is clothed in white, 
I'll take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light ; 
As unto a stream we will step down, 

And bathe there in God's sight. 78 

"We two will stand beside that shrine, 

Occult, withheld, untrod. 
Whose lamps are stirred continually 

With prayer sent up to God ; 
And see our old prayers, granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud. 84 

"We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic- tree 
Within whose secret growth the Dove ^ 

Is sometimes felt to be. 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 



90 



96 



"And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so. 
The songs I sing here ; which his voice 

ShaU pause in, hushed and slow, 
And find some knowledge at each pause. 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st ! 

Yea, one wast thou with me 
That once of old. But shall God lift 

To endless unity 
The soul whose likeness with thy soul 

Was but its love for thee ?) 



"We too," she said, "will seek the groves 

Where the lady Mary is, 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret and Rosalys. 108 



"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame 

Weaving the golden thread. 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 



114 



"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: 
Then will I lay my cheek 

To his, and tell about our love, 
Not once abashed or weak : 

1 the Holy Ghost 



626 



And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. i 

"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 

To Him round whom all souls 
Elneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 

Bowed with their aureoles : 
And angels meeting us shall sing 

To their citherns and citoles.^ 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

"Even so. 



126 



"There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
Thus much for him and me : — 

Only to live as once on earth 
With Love, only to be, 

As then awhile, forever now 
Together, I and he." 

She gazed and listened and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, — • 

"All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
The light thrilled towards her, iill'd 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres : 

And then she cast her arms along 
The golden barriers, 

And laid her face between her hands. 
And wept. ' (I heard her tears.) 



132 



138 



144 



SISTER HELEN 

"Why did you melt your waxen man, 

Sister Helen? 

To-day is the third since you began." 

"The time was long, yet the time ran, 

Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven !) 7 

"But if you have done your work aright, 
Sister Helen, 

You'll let me play, for you said I might." 

"Be very still in your play to-night. 

Little brother." 12 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven !) 

"You said it must melt ere vesper-beU, 

Sister Helen ; 
If now it be molten, all is well." 

^ ancient musical instruments 



nay, peace ! you cannot tell. 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What is this, between Hell and Heaven?) 21 

"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day. 
Sister Helen ; 
How like dead folk he has dropped away !" 
"Nay now, of the dead what can you say, 25 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

"See, see, the sunken pile of wood. 

Sister Helen, 
Shines through the thinned wax red as 

blood ! " 
"Nay now, when looked you yet on blood, 32 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven I) 

"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore, 
Sister Helen, 

And I'll play without the gallery door." 

"Aye, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor, 

Little brother."4o 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

What rest to-night between Hell and Heaven ?) 

"Here high up in the balcony. 

Sister Helen, 
The moon flies face to face with me." 
"Aye, look and say whatever you see. 

Little brother. "47 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) 

"Outside it's merry in the wind's wake, 

Sister Helen ; 

In the shaken trees the chiU stars shake." 52 

"Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake. 

Little brother?" 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) 

"I hear a horse-tread, and I see. 

Sister Helen, 
Three horsemen that ride terribly." 
"Little brother, whence come the three. 

Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Whence should they come, between Hell and 
Heaven?) 63 



SISTER HELEN 



627 



"They come by the hill- verge from Boyne Bar, 

Sister Helen, 

And one draws nigh, but two are afar." 

"Look, look, do you know them who they are. 

Little brother? "68 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Who should they be, between Hell atid Heaven?) 

"Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white mane on the blast." 
"The hour has come, has come at last. 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!) 77 

"He has made a sign and called Halloo ! 

Sister Helen, 
And he says that he would speak with you." 
"Oh teU him I fear the frozen dew. 

Little brother." 82 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven ?) 

"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, 
Sister Helen, 
That Keith of Ewern's like to die." 
"And he and thou, and thou and I, 

Little brother."89 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"Three days ago, on his marriage-morn. 
Sister Helen, 

He sickened, and lies since then forlorn." 

"For bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn, 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven /) 98 

"Three days and nights he has lain abed, 
Sister Helen, 

And he prays in torment to be dead." loi 

"The thing may chance, if he have prayed. 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven !) 

"But he has not ceased to cry to-day. 

Sister Helen, 

That you should take your curse away." 108 

"My prayer was heard, — he need but pray, 

Little brother!" 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?) 



"But he says, till you take back your ban, 

Sister Helen, 
His soul would pass, yet never can." 
"Nay then, shall I slay a living man. 

Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
A living soul, between Hell a7id Heaven!) 119 

"But he calls forever on your name. 

Sister Helen, 

And sa3^s that he melts before a flame." 

"My heart for his pleasure fared the same, 
Little brother." 
{0 Mother, Mary Motlier, 

Fire at the heart, bePween Hell and Heaven!) 126 

"Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast, 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white plimie on the blast." 
"The hour, the sw;eet hour I forecast, 130 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?) 

"He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, 

Sister Helen ; 

But his words are drowned in the wind's 

course." 136 

"Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce. 

Little brother!" 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

What word now heard , between Hell and Heaven ?) 

"Oh, he says that Keith of Ewern's cry, 
Sister Helen, 

Is ever to see you ere he die." 

"In all that his soul sees, there am I, 144 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Tlie soul's one sight, between Hell and Heaven I) 

"He sends a ring and a broken coin. 

Sister Helen, 
And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." 
"What else he broke will he ever join, 151 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"He yields you these and craves full fain, 

Sister Helen, 
You pardon him in his mortal pain." 
"What else he took will he give again. 

Little brother?" 
(0 Motlier, Mary Mother, 
Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!) 161 



628 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 



"He calls your name in an agony, 

Sister Helen, 
That even dead Love must weep to see." 
"Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, 165 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 



"Her hood falls back, and themoon shines fair, 

Sister Helen, 
On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair." 213 
"Blest hour of my power and her despair, 
Little brother!" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 



Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven !) Hour blest a'>id bann'd, between Hell and 

Heaven !) 



"Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast. 

Sister Helen, 
For I know the white hair on the blast." 
"The short, short hour will soon be past, 172 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"He looks at me and he tries to speak, 
Sister Helen, 

But oh ! his voice is sad and weak !" 

"What here should the mighty Baron seek. 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven ?) 182 

"Oh his son still cries, if you forgive. 

Sister Helen, 
The body dies, but the soul shall live." 
"Fire shaU forgive me as I forgive. 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 



"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow, 
Sister Helen, 219 
'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago." 
"One morn for pride and three days for woe. 
Little brother!" 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 
Three days, three nights, between Hell and 
Heaven I) 

"Her clasped hands stretch from her bending 
head. 

Sister Helen ; 226 
With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed." 
"What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed. 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What strain but death's between Hell and 
Heaven ?) 

"She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon, 
Sister Helen, ■ 



As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!) 189 She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." 234 

" Oh ! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune. 



Little brother!" 

(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"They've caught her to Westholm's saddle- 
bow. 

Sister Helen, 
And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow." 
"Let it turn whiter than winter snow, 242 
Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
"The way is long to his son's abode, 200 Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!) 

Little brother." 



"Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive, 
Sister Helen, 

To save his dear son's soul alive." 

" Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!) 196 

"He cries to you, kneeling in the road. 

Sister Helen, 
To go with him for the love of God !" 



(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!) 

"A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, 
Sister Helen, 

So darkly clad, I saw her not." 

"See her now or never see aught, 207 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

What more to see, between Hell and Heaven!) 



"O Sister Helen, you heard the bell. 

Sister Helen! 
More loud than the vesper-chime it fell." 
"No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!) 252 

"Alas! but I fear the heavy sound, 

Sister Helen ; 



FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 



629 



Is it in the sky or in the ground?" 
" Say, have they turned their horses round, 
Little brother?" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
What would she more, between Hell and 
Heaven ?) 259 

"They have raised the old man from his knee, 
Sister Helen, 

And they ride in silence hastily." 

"More fast the naked soul doth flee, 263 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!) 266 

"Flank to flank are the three steeds gone. 
Sister Helen, 

But the lady's dark steed goes alone." 

"And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown. 
Little brother." 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!) 273 

"Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, 

Sister Helen, 

And weary sad they look by the hill." 

"But he and I are sadder still, 

Little brother ! " 
(O Mother, Mary Mother, 

Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!) 280 

" See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, 
Sister Helen, 

And the flames are winning up apace!" 

"Yet here they burn but for a space. 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!) 287 

" Ah ! what white thing at the door has cross'd, 
Sister Helen, 

Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?" 

"A soul that's lost as mine is lost, 291 

Little brother!" 
(0 Mother, Mary Mother, 

Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven !) 



THE B.ALL.AD OF DEAD LADIES 

(From FRANCOIS VILLON) 1 

Tell me now in what hidden way is 
Lady Flora the lovely Roman? 

^ Cf. Stevenson's essay, pp. 662 ff. 



Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, 
Neither of them the fairer woman ? 
Where is Echo, beheld of no man. 

Only heard on river and mere, — 

She whose beauty was more than human? . . . 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 8 

Where's Heloise, the learned nun. 
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween. 

Lost manhood and put priesthood on? 
(From Love he won such dule and teen!) 
And where, I pray you, is the Queen 

Who willed that Buridan should steer 

Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? . . . 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 16 

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, 
With a voice like any mermaiden, — 

Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, 

And Ermengarde the lady of Maine, — 
And that good Joan whom Englishmen 

At Rouen doomed and burned her there, — ■ 
Mother of God, where are they then? . . . 

But where are the snows of yester-year? 24 

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, 
Where they are gone, nor yet this year. 

Except with this for an overword,^ ^- 

"But where are the snows of yester-year?" 

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 

(From DANTE) 2 



When I made answer, I began: "Alas! 
How many sweet thoughts and how much 
desire 
Led these two onward to the dolorous pass! " 
Then turned to them, as who would fain 
inquire, 
And said: "Francesca, these thine agonies 
Wring tears for pity aiid grief that they in- 
spire : — 
But tell me, — in the season of sweet sighs. 
When and what way did Love instruct you 
so 
That he in your vague longings made you 
wise ? " 9 

Than she to me : "There is no greater woe 
Then the remembrance brings of happy days 
In Misery ; and this thy guide ^ doth know. 

^refrain '^Inferno, v, 112-42 •'Vergil; no 
special passage, but his general experience is meant 



630 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 



But if the first beginnings to retrace 

Of our sad love can yield thee solace here, 
So will I be as one that weeps and sa3's. 
One day we read, for pastime and sweet 
cheer, 
Of Lancelot,^ how he found Love tyrannous : 

We were alone and v^fithout any fear. • 
Our eyes were drawn together, reading thus, 
lull oft, and still our cheeks would pale and 
glow ; 20 

But one sole point it was that conquered us. 

For when we read of that great lover, how 
He kissed the smile which he had longed to 
win, — 
Then he whom nought can sever from me 
now 
Forever, kissed my mouth, aU quivering. 

A Galahalt^ was the book, and he that writ : 
Upon that day we read no more therein." 

At the tale told, whUe one sord uttered it. 
The other wept : a pang so pitiable 

That I was seized, like death, in swooning- 
fit, 30 

And even as a dead body falls, I fell. 

ON REFUS.AL OF AID BETWEEN 
NATIONS 

Not that the earth is changing, O my God! 
Nor that the seasons totter in their walk, — 
Not that the virulent ill of act and talk 
Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod, — ■ 
Not therefore are we certain that the rod 
Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world; 

though now 
Beneath thine hand so many nations bow, 
So many kings : — not therefore, O my God! — 
But because Man is parcelled out in men 
To-day ; because, for any wrongful blow, 10 
No man not stricken asks, "I would be 
told 
AVhy thou dost thus : " but his heart whispers 
then, 
"He is he, I am I." By this we know 
That the earth falls asunder, being old. 

THE SONNET 

A Sonnet is a moment's monument, — 
Memorial from the Soul's eternity 
To one dead deathless hour. Look that it be, 

^ the lover of Guinevere, King Arthur's queen 
^ i.e., the book brought them together as he did 
Launcelot and Guinevere 



W^hether for lustral rite or dire portent. 
Of its own arduous fulness reverent : 
Carve it in ivory or in ebony. 
As Day or Night may rule; and let Time 
see 
Its flowering crest impearled and orient. 
A Sonnet is a coin : its face reveals 

The soul, — its converse, to what Power 
'tis due: — 10 

Whether for tribute to the august appeals 
Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue, 
It serve ; or, 'mid the dark wharf's cavernous 

breath. 
In Charon's ^ palm it pay the toll to Death. 

LOVE-SIGHT 

When do I see thee most, beloved one? 
When in the Hght the spirits of mine eyes 
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize 

The worship of that Love through thee made 
known ? 

Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,) 
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies 
Thy twUight-hidden glim-mering visage hes, 

And my soul only sees thy soul its own ? 

O love, my love! if I no more should see 

Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee. 
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 11 

How then should sound upon Life's darkening 
slope 

The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of 
Hope, 
The wind of Death's imperishable wing? 

LOVE-SWEETNESS 

Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's downfall 
About thy face ; her sweet hands round thy 

head 
In gracious fostering union garlanded ; 
Her tremulous smUes ; her glances' sweet recall 
Of love ; her murmuring sighs memorial ; 
Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy kisses 

shed 
On cheeks and neck and eyehds, and so led 
Back to her mouth which answers there for 

all: — 
What sweeter than these things, except the 
thing 

^ the ferrj'man who in Greek mythology con- 
\-e>-ed the spirits of the dead across the ri\'er St3'x 

to Hades 



THE LANDMARK 



631 



In lacking which all these would lose their 
sweet : — 10 

The confident heart's still fervour: the 
swift beat 
And soft subsidence of the spirit's wing, 
Then when it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring, 
The breath of kindred plumes against its 
feet? 

MID-RAPTURE 

Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love ; 
Whose kiss seems still the first ; whose 

summoning eyes, 
Even now, as for our love-world's new sun- 
rise, 
Shed very dawn ; whose voice, attuned above 
All modulation of the deep-bowered dove. 
Is like a hand laid softly on the soul ; 
Whose hand is like a sweet voice to control 
Those worn tired brows it hath the keeping 

of: — 
What w^ord can answer to thy word, — what 
gaze 
To thine, which now absorbs within its 
sphere 10 

My worshipping face, till I am mirrored 
there 
Light-circled in a heaven of deep-drawn rays? 
What clasp, what kiss mine inmost heart 

can prove, 
lovely and beloved, O my love? 

SOUL-LIGHT 

What other woman could be loved like you. 
Or how of you should love possess his fill ? 
After the fulness of all rapture, still, — 
As at the end of some deep avenue 
A tender glamour of day, — there comes to 
view 
Far in your eyes a yet more hungering 

thrill. — 
Such fire as Love's soul-winnowing hands 
distil 
Even from his inmost ark of light and dew. 
And as the traveller triumphs with the sun. 
Glorying in heat's mid-height, yet startide 

brings 

Wonder new-born, and still fresh transport 

springs 1 1 

From limpid lambent hours of day begun ; — 

Even so, through eyes and voice, your soul 

doth move 

!My soul with changeful light of infinite love. 



KNOWN IN VAIN 

As two whose love, first foolish, widening 
scope. 
Knows suddenly, to music high and soft. 
The Holy of holies ; who because they 
scofi'd 
Are now amazed with shame, nor dare to 

cope 
With the whole truth aloud, lest heaven should 
ope; 
Yet, at their meetings, laugh not as they 

laugh 'd 
In speech ; nor speak, at length ; but sitting 
oft 
Together, within hopeless sight of hope 
For hours are silent : — So it happeneth 
When Work and Will awake too late, to 
gaze I o 

After their life sailed by, and hold their 
breath. 
Ah! who shall dare to search through what 

sad maze 
Thenceforth their incommunicable ways 
Follow the desultory feet of Death ? 



THE LANDMARK 

Was that the landmark ? What , — the foolish 
well 
Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to 

drink, 
But sat and flung the pebbles from its 
brink 
In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell, 
(And mine own image, had I noted well !) — 
Was that my point of turning? — I had 

thought 
The stations of my course should rise un- 
sought, 
As altar-stone or ensigned citadel. 
But lo! the path is missed, I must go back. 
And thirst to drink when next I reach the 
spring 10 

Which once I stained, which since may have 
grown black. 
Yet though no light be left nor bird now 

sing 
As here I turn, I'll thank God, hastening, 
That the same goal is still on the same 
track. 



632 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

THE CHOICE 
I 



III 



Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt 
die. 
Surely the earth, that's wise being very old, 
Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, 
and hold 
Thy sultry hair up from my face ; that I 
May pour for thee this golden wine, brim- 
high, 
Till round the glass thy fingers glow like 
gold. 



Think thou and act ; to-morrow thou shalt 
die. 
Outstretch'd in the sun's warmth upon the 

shore. 
Thou say'st : "Man's measured path is all 
gone o'er ; 
Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh, 
Man clomb until he touched the truth ; 
and I, 
Even I, am he whom it was destined for." 
How should this be ? Art thou then so 
much more 



We'll drown all hours : thy song, while Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst reap 



hours are toU'd, 
Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky. 
Now kiss, and think that there are really 
those. 
My own high-bosomed beauty, who increase 
Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose 
our way ! 1 1 

Through many years they toil ; then on 
a day 
They die not, — for their life was death, — 
but cease ; 
And round their narrow lips the mould falls 
close. 



thereby ? 

Nay, come up hither. From this wave- 
washed mound 
Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me ; 
Then reach on with thy thought till it be 
drown'd. 1 1 

Miles and miles distant though the last line 
be. 
And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues 
beyond, — 
Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is 
more sea. 



II 



Watch thou and fear; to-morrow thou shalt 
die. 
Or art thou sure thou shalt have time for 

death ? 
Is not the day which God's word promiseth 
To come man knows not when? In yonder 

sky. 
Now while we speak, the sun speeds forth: 
can I 
Or thou assure him of his goal ? God's 

breath 
Even at this moment haply quickeneth 
The air to a fiame ; till spirits, always nigh 
Though screened and hid, shall walk the day- 
light here. 
And dost thou prate of all that man shall 
do? 
Canst thou, who hast but plagues, pre- 
sume to be II 
Glad in his gladness that comes after 
thee? 
Will his strength slay thy worm in Hell ? 
Go to: 
Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear. 



VAIN VIRTUES 

What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell ? 
None of the sins, — but this and that fair 

deed 
Which a soul's sin at length could supersede. 
These yet are virgins, whom death's timely 

kneU 
Might once have sainted; whom the fiends 
compel 
Together now, in snake-bound shuddering 

sheaves 
Of anguish, while the pit's pollution leaves 
Their refuse maidenhood abominable. 
Night sucks them down, the tribute of the 
pit, 
Whose names, half entered in the book of 
Life, 
Were God's desire at noon. And as their 
hair 1 1 

And eyes sink last, the Torturer deigns no 
whit 
To gaze, but, yearning, waits his destined 
wife, 
The Sin still blithe on earth that sent 
them there. 



WILLIAM MORRIS 



633 



LOST DAYS 

The lost days of my life until to-day, 

What were they, could I see them on the 

street 
Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of 
wheat 
Sown once for food but trodden into clay? 
Or golden coins squandered and still to-pay ? 
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet ? 
Or sucia spilt water as in dreams must cheat 
The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway ? 
I do not see them here ; but after death 

God knows I know the faces I shall see, 10 
Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. 
"I am thyself,' — what hast thou done to 
me?" 
"And I — and I — ^ thyself ," (lo ! each one 
saith,) 
"And thou thyself to all eternity!" 

A SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look in my face ; my name is Might-have- 
been ; 
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Fare- 
well ; 
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell 
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between ; 
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen 
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by 

my spell 
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, 
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. 
Mark me, how still I am ! But should there 
dart 
One moment through thy soul the soft sur- 
prise 10 
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath 
of sighs, — 
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart 
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart, 
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. 

THE ONE HOPE 

When vain desire at last and vain regret 
Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain, 
What shall assuage the unforgotten pain 
And teach the unforgetful to forget ? 
Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long un- 
met, — 
Or may the soul at once in a green plain 
Stoop through the spray of some sweet life- 
fomitain 



And cull the dew-drenched flowering amulet ? 

Ah ! when the wan soul in that golden air 
Between the scriptured petals softly blown 
Peers breathless for the gift of grace un- 
known, — II 

Ah ! let none other alien spell soe'er 

But only the one Hope's one name be there, — 
Not less nor more, but even that word alone. 

WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) 
THE EARTHLY PARADISE 

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, 
I cannot ease the burden of your fears, 
Or make quick-coming death a little thing, 
Or bring again the pleasure of past years. 
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears. 
Or hope again for aught that I can say. 
The idle singer of an empty day. 7 

But rather, when aweary of your mirth, 
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh. 
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, 
Grudge every minute as it passes by, 
Made the more mindful that the sweet days 

die — 
— Remember me a Httle then, I pray, 
The idle singer of an empty day. 14 

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care 
That weighs us down who live and earn our 

bread. 
These idle verses have no power to bear ; 
So let me sing of names remembered. 
Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead. 
Or long time take their memory quite away 
From us poor singers of an empty day. 21 

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due 
time. 
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? 
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme 
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,^ 
Telling a tale not too importunate 
To those who in the sleepy region stay. 
Lulled by the singer of an empty day. 28 

Folk say, a wizard to a northern long 
At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did 
show, 

^ the gate of false dreams; cf. jEneid, VI, 
895-6 



634 



WILLIAM MORRIS 



That through one window men beheld the 

spring, 
And through another saw the summer glow, 
And through a third the fruited vines a-row, 
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way. 
Piped the drear wind of that December day. 

So with this Earthly Paradise it is, 36 

If ye will read aright, and pardon me, 
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss 
Midmost the beating of the steely sea,^ 
Where tossed about all hearts of men must be ; 
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall 

slay, 
Not the poor singer of an empty day. 42 

PROLOGUE 

Forget six counties overhung with smoke, 
Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, 
Forget the spreading of the hideous town ; 
Think rather of the pack-horse on the down, 
And dream of London, small, and white, and 

clean. 
The clear Thames bordered by its gardens 

green ; 
Think, that below bridge the green lapping 

waves 
Smite some few keels that bear Levantine 

staves. 
Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill. 
And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to 

fill, 10 

And treasured scanty spice from some far sea, 
Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery. 
And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of 

Guienne ; 
While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey 

Chaucer's pen 
Moves over bills of lading — mid such times 
Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes. 



THE LADY OF THE LAND 

It happened once, some men of Italy 
Midst the Greek Islands went a sea-roving, 
And much good fortune had they on the sea : 
Of many a man they had the ransoming. 
And many a chain they gat, and goodly thing ; 
And midst their voyage to an isle they came, 
Whereof my story keepeth not the name. 7 

^ of modern life 



Now though but little was there left to gain, 
Because the richer folk had gone away, 
Yet since by this of water they were fain 
They came to anchor in a land-locked bay, 
Whence in a while some went ashore to play. 
Going but lightly armed in twos or threes, 
For midst that folk they feared no enemies. 14 

And of these fellows that thus went ashore. 
One was there who left all his friends behind ; 
Who going inland ever more and more, 
And being left quite alone, at last did find 
A lonely valley sheltered from the wind, 
Wherein, amidst an ancient cypress wood, 
A long-deserted ruined castle stood. 2 1 

The wood, once ordered in fair grove and 

glade. 
With gardens overlooked by terraces, 
And marble-paved pools for pleasure made, 
Was tangled now, and choked with fallen 

trees ; 
And he who went there, with but little ease 
Must stumble by the stream's side, once made 

meet 
For tender women's dainty wandering feet. 28 

The raven's croak, the low wind choked and 
drear. 
The bafiied stream, the grey wolf's doleful cry, 
Were all the sounds that mariner could hear, 
As through the wood he wandered painfully ; 
But as unto the house he drew anigh, 
The pillars of a ruined shrine" he saw, 
The once fair temple of a fallen law. 35 

No image was there left behind to tell 
Before whose face the knees of men had bowed ; 
An altar of black stone, of old wrought well. 
Alone beneath a ruined roof now showed 
The goal whereto the folk were wont to crowd. 
Seeking for things forgotten long ago. 
Praying for heads long ages laid a-low. 42 

Close to the temple was the castle-gate, 
Doorless and crumbling; there our fellow 

turned. 
Trembling indeed at what might chance to 

wait 
The prey entrapped, yet with a heart that 

burned 
To know the most of what might there be 

learned, 
And hoping somewhat too, amid his fear, 
To light on such things as all men hold dear. 



THE EARTHLY PARADISE 



^3S 



Noble the house was, nor seemed built for 
war, 50 

But rather like the work of other days, 
When rhen, in better peace than now they are, 
Had leisure on the world around to gaze. 
And noted well the past times' changing ways ; 
And fair with sculptured stories it was 

wrought, 
By lapse of time unto dim ruin brought. 56 

Now as he looked about on all these things, 
And strove to read the mouldering histories. 
Above the door an image with wide wings. 
Whose unclad limbs a serpent seemed to seize, 
He dimly saw, although the western breeze, 
And years of biting frost and washing rain. 
Had made the carver's labour well-nigh vain. 

But this, though perished sore, and worn 
away, 64 

He noted well, because it seemed to be. 
After the fashion of another day, 
Some great man's badge of war, or armoury ; ^ 
And round it a carved wreath he seemed to 

see : 
But taking note of these things, at the last 
The mariner beneath the gateway passed. 70 

And there a lovely cloistered court he 
found, 
A fountain in the midst o'erthrown and dry, 
And in the cloister briers twining round 
The slender shafts ; the wondrous imagery 
Outworn by more than many years gone by ; 
Because the country people, in their fear 
Of wizardry, had wrought destruction here ; 

And piteously these fair things had been 

maimed ; 78 

There stood great Jove, lacking his head of 

might. 
Here was the archer, swift Apollo, lamed ; 
The shapely limbs of Venus hid from sight 
By weeds and shards ; Diana's ankles hght 
Bound with the cable of some coasting ship ; 
And rusty nails through Helen's maddening 
lip. 84 

Therefrom unto the chambers did he pass. 
And found them fair still, midst of their decay, 
Though in them now no sign of man there was. 
And everything but stone had passed away 
That made them lovely in that vanished day ; 

^ coat of arms 



Nay, the mere walls themselves woxild soon be 
gone 90 

And nought be left but heaps of mouldering 
stone. 

But he, when all the place he had gone o'er. 
And with much trouble clomb the broken stair, 
And from the topmost turret seen the shore 
And his good ship drawn up at anchor there. 
Came down again, and found a crypt most fair 
Built wonderfully beneath the greatest hall. 
And there he saw a door within the wall, 98 

Well-hinged, close shut ; nor was there in 

that place 
Another on its hinges, therefore he 
Stood there and pondered for a little space. 
And thought, " Perchance some marvel I shall 

see. 
For surely here some dweller there must be. 
Because this door seems whole, and new, and 

sound. 
While nought but ruin I can see around." 105 

So with that word, moved by a strong 
desire, 
He tried the hasp, that yielded to his hand, 
And in a strange place, lit as by a fire 
Unseen but near, he presently did stand ; 
And by an odorous breeze his face was fanned. 
As though in some Arabian plain he stood, 
Anigh the border of a spice-tree wood. 112 

He moved not for awhile, but looking round. 
He wondered much to see the place so fair, 
Because, unlike the castle above ground, 
No pillager or wrecker had been there ; 
It seemed that time had passed on otherwhere, 
Nor laid a finger on this hidden f.lace. 
Rich with the wealth of some forgotten race. 

With hangings, fresh as when they left the 
loom, 120 

The walls were hung a space above the head, 
Slim ivory chairs were set about the room, 
And in one corner was a dainty bed, 
That seemed for some fair queen apparelled ; 
And marble was the worst stone of the floor, 
That with rich Indian webs was covered o'er. 

The wanderer trembled when he saw all this, 

Because he deemed by magic it was wrought ; 

Yet in his heart a longing for some bliss, 129 

Whereof the hard and changing world knows 

nought. 



636 



WILLIAM MORRIS 



Arose and urged him on, and dimmed the 

thought 
That there perchance some devil lurked to slay 
The heedless wanderer from the light of day. 

Over against him was another door 134 
Set in the wall ; so, casting fear aside, 
With hurried steps he crossed the varied floor. 
And there again the silver latch he tried 
And with no pain the door he opened wide, 
And entering the new chamber cautiously 
The glory of great heaps of gold could see. 

Upon the floor uncounted medals lay, 141 
Like things of little value ; here and there 
Stood golden caldrons, that might well out- 
weigh 
The biggest midst an emperor's copper-ware, 
And golden cups were set on tables fair. 
Themselves of gold ; and in all hollow things 
Were stored great gems, worthy the crowns 
of kings. 147 

The walls and roof with gold were overlaid. 
And precious raiment from the wall hung 

down ; 
The fall of kings that treasure might have 

stayed. 
Or gained some longing conqueror great re- 
nown, 
Or built again some god-destroyed old town ; 
What wonder, if this plunderer of the sea 
Stood gazing at it long and dizzily ? 154 

But at the last his troubled eyes and dazed 
He lifted from the glory of that gold. 
And then the image, that well-nigh erased 
Over the castle-gate he did behold, 
Above a door well wrought in colored gold 
Again he saw ; a naked girl with wings 
Enfolded in a serpent's scaly rings. 161 

And even as his eyes were fixed on it 
A woman's voice came from the other side. 
And through his heart strange hopes began to 

_ flit 
That in some wondrous land he might abide 
Not dying, master of a deathless bride, 166 
So o'er the gold which now he scarce could see 
He went, and passed this last door eagerly. 

Then in a room he stood wherein there was 
A marble bath, whose brimming water yet 
Was scarcely still ; a vessel of green glass 
Half full of odorous ointment was there set 



Upon the topmost step that still was wet, 
And jewelled shoes and women's dainty gear. 
Lay cast upon the varied pavement near. 175 

In one quick glance these things his eyes 
did see, 
But speedily they turned round to behold 
Another sight, for throned on ivory 
There sat a woman, whose wet tresses rolled 
On to the floor in waves of gleaming gold, 180 
Cast back from such a form as, erewhile shown 
To one poor shepherd, lighted up Troy town.^ 

Naked she was, the kisses of her feet 183 
Upon the floor a dying path had made 
From the full bath unto her ivory seat ; 
In her right hand, upon her bosom laid. 
She held a golden comb, a mirror weighed 
Her left hand down, aback her fair head lay 
Dreaming awake of some long vanished day. 

Her eyes were shut, but she seemed not to 

sleep, 190 

Her lips were murmuring things unheard and 

low. 
Or sometimes twitched as though she needs 

must weep 
Though from her eyes the tears refused to flow, 
And oft with heavenly red her cheek did glow, 
As if remembrance of some half-sweet shame 
Across the web of many memories came. 196 

There stood the man, scarce daring to draw 

breath 
For fear the lovely sight should fade away ; 
Forgetting heaven, forgetting life and death, 
Trembling for fear lest something he should 

say 
Unwitting, lest some sob should yet betray 
His presence there, for to his eager eyes 
Already did the tears begin to rise. 203 

But as he gazed, she moved, and with a sigh 
Bent forward, dropping down her golden head ; 
"Alas, alas ! another day gone by, 
Another day and no soul come," she said ; 
"Another year, and still I am not dead !" 
And with that word once more her head she 

raised, 209 

And on the trembling man with great eyes 

gazed. 

^ Helen's, shown to Paris, who abducted her, 
brought on the war that ended in the burning o^ 
Troy. 



I 



THE EARTHLY PARADISE 



637 



Then he imploring hands to her did reach, 
And toward her very slowly 'gan to move 
And* with wet eyes her pity did beseech, 
And seeing her about to speak, he strove 214 
From trembling lips to utter words of love ; 
But with a look she stayed his doubtful feet, 
And made sweet music as their eyes did meet. 

For now she spoke in gentle voice and clear. 
Using the Greek tongue that he knew full 

y^ell ; 
" What man art thou, that thus hast wandered 
here, 220 

And found this lonely chamber where I dwell ? 
Beware, beware ! for I have many a spell ; 
If greed of power and gold have led thee on, 
Not lightly shall this untold wealth be won. 

"But if thou com'st here, knowing of my 
tale, 225 

In hope to bear away my body fair. 
Stout must thine heart be, nor shall that 

avail 
If thou a wicked soul in thee dost bear ; 
So once again I bid thee to beware, 
Because no base man things like this may see, 
And live thereafter long and happily." 231 

"Lady," he said, "in Florence is my home, 
And in my city noble is my name ; 
Neither on peddling voyage am I come. 
But. like my fathers, bent to gather fame ; 
And though thy face has set my heart a-flame 
Yet of thy story nothing do I know, 
But here have wandered heedlessly enow. 

"But since the sight of thee mine eyes did 
bless, 239 

What can I be but thine ? what wouldst thou 
have? 

From those thy words, I deem from some 
distress 

By deeds of mine thy dear Ufe I might save ; 

O then, delay not ! if one ever gave 

His life to any, mine I give to thee ; 

Come, tell me what the price of love must be ? 

"Swift death, to be with thee a day and 
night 246 

And with the earliest dawning to be slain? 
Or better, a long j^ear of great delight, 
x^nd many years of misery and pain ? 
Or worse, and this poor hour for all my gain ? 
A sorry merchant am I on this day. 
E'en as thou wiliest so must I obey." 252 



She said, ""What brave words! nought 
divine am I, 
But an unhappy and unheard-of maid 
Compelled by evil fate and destiny 
To live, who long ago should have been laid 
Under the earth within the cypress shade. 
Hearken awhile, and quickly shalt thou know 
What deed I pray thee to accomplish now. 

"God grant indeed thy words are not for 
nought ! 260 

Then shalt thou save me, since for many a day 
To such a dreadful life I have been brought : 
Nor will I spare with all my heart to pay 
What man soever takes my grief away ; 
Ah ! I will love thee, if thou lovest me 
But well enough my saviour now to be. 266 

"My father lived a many years agone 
Lord of this land, master of all cunning. 
Who ruddy gold could draw from out grey 

stone. 
And gather wealth from many an uncouth 

thing ; 
He made the wilderness rejoice and sing. 
And such a leech he was that none could say 
Without his word what soul should pass away. 

"Unto Diana such a gift he gave, 274 

Goddess above, below, and on the earth. 
That I should be her virgin and her slave 
From the first hour of my most wretched 

birth ; 
Therefore my life had known but little mirth 
When I had come unto my twentieth year 
And the last time of hallowing drew anear. 280 

"So in her temple had I lived and died 
And all would long ago have passed away, 
But ere that time came, did strange things 

betide. 
Whereby I am alive unto this day ; 
Alas, the bitter words that I must say ! 
Ah ! can I bring my wretched tongue to tell 
How I was brought unto this fearful hell ? 287 

"A queen I was, what gods I knew I loved. 
And nothing evil was there in my thought, 
And yet by love my wretched heart was moved 
Until to utter ruin I was brought ! 
Alas ! thou sayest our gods were vain and 

nought ; 
Wait, wait, till thou hast heard this tale of 

mine, 293 

Then shalt thou think them devihsh or divine. 



638 



WILLIAM MORRIS 



"Hearken ! in spite of father and of vow 
I loved a man ; but for that sin I think 
Men liad forgiven me — yea, yea, even thou ; 
But from the gods the full cup must I drink, 
And into misery unheard of sink, 299 

Tormented, when their own names are forgot. 
And men must doubt if e'er they lived or not. 

" Glorious my lover was unto my sight, 
Most beautiful, — of love we grew so fain 
That we at last agreed, that on a night 304 
We should be happy, but that ^ he were slain 
Or shut in hold ; and neither joy nor pain 
Should else forbid that hoped-for time to be ; 
So came the night that made a wretch of me. 

"Ah ! well do I remember all that night. 
When through the window shone the orb of 
June, 310 

And by the bed flickered the taper's light. 
Whereby I trembled, gazing at the moon : 
Ah me ! the meeting that we had, when soon 
Into his strong, well-trusted arms I fell. 
And many a sorrow we began to tell. 315 

"Ah me! what parting on that night we 
had! 
I think the story of my great despair 
A little while might merry folk make sad ; 
For, as he swept away my yellow hair 
To make my shoulder and my bosom bare, 
I raised mine eyes, and shuddering could be- 
hold 
A shadow cast upon the bed of gold : 322 

"Then suddenly was quenched my hot 
desire 
And he untwined his arms ; the moon so pale 
A while ago, seemed changed to blood and fire, 
And yet my limbs beneath me did not fail. 
And neither had I strength to cry or wail. 
But stood there helpless, bare, and shivering, 
With staring eyes still fixed upon the thing. 320 

"Because the shade that on the bed of gold 
The changed and dreadful moon was throwing 

down 
Was of Diana, whom I did behold, 
With knotted hair, and shining girt-up gown, 
And on the high white brow, a deadly frown 
Bent upon us, who stood scarce drawing 

breath, 
Striving to meet the horrible sure death. 336 



"No word at all the dreadful goddess said. 
But soon across my feet my lover lay, 
And well indeed I knevv' that he was dead ; 
And would that I had died on that same day ! 
For in a while the image turned away, 
And without words my doom I miderstood. 
And felt a horror change my human blood. 343 

"And there I fell, and on the floor I lay 
By the dead man, tUl daylight came on me, 
And not a word thenceforward could I say 
For three years ; till of grief and misery, 
The lingering pest,^ the cruel enemy. 
My father and his folk were dead and gone, 
And in this castle I was left alone : 350 

"And then the doom foreseen upon me fell. 
For Queen Diana did my body change 
Into a fork-tongued dragon, flesh and fell," 
And through the island nightly do I range, 
Or in the green sea mate with monsters strange, 
When in the middle of the moonlit night 
The sleepy mariner I do affright. 357 

"But all day long upon this gold I lie 
AVithin this place, where never mason's hand 
Smote trowel on the marble noisily ; 
Drowsy I lie, no folk at my command. 
Who once was called the Lady of the Land ; 
Who might have bought a kingdom with a 
kiss, 363 

Yea, half the world with such a sight as this." 

And therewithal, with rosy fingers light, 
Backward her heavy-hanging hair she threw, 
To give her naked beauty more to sight ; 
But when, forgetting all the things he knew. 
Maddened v/ith love unto the prize he drew, 
She cried, "Nay, wait ! for wherefore wilt 

thou die, 
Why should we not be happy, thou and I ? 3 7 1 

" Wilt thou not save me ? once in every year 
This rightful form of mine that thou dost see 
By favour of the goddess have I here 
From sunrise unto sunset given me, 
That some brave man may end my misery. 
And thou — art thou not brave ? can thy 
heart fail, 377 

Whose eyes e'en now are weeping at my tale ? 

"Then listen ! when this day is overpast, 
A fearful monster shall I be again, 



unless 



^ plague 



skin 



THE EARTHLY PARADISE 



639 



And thou mayst be my sa\'iour at the last ; 
Unless, once more, thy words are nought and 

vain. 
If thou of love and sovereignty art fain, 
Come thou next morn, and when thou seest 

here 
A liideous dragon, have thereof no fear, 385 

"But take the loathsome head up in thine 
hands, 
j\nd kiss it, and be master presently 
Of twice the wealth that is in all the lands 
From Cathay ^ to the head of Italy ; 
And master also, if it pleaseth thee. 
Of all thou praisest as so fresh and bright, 
Of what thou callest crown of all delight. 392 

"Ah ! with what joy then shall I see again 
The sunlight on the green grass and the trees, 
And hear the clatter of the summer rain, 
And see the joyous folk beyond the seas. 
Ah, me ! to hold my child upon my knees, 
After the weeping of unkindly tears, 398 

And all the wrongs of these four hundred years. 

" Go now, go quick ! leave this grey heap 
of stone ; 
And from thy glad heart think upon thy way. 
How I shall love thee — yea, love thee alone. 
That bringest me from dark death unto day ; 
For this shall be th)' wages and thy pay ; 
Unheard-of wealth, unheard-of love is near. 
If thou hast heart a little dread to bear." 406 

Therewith she turned to go ; but he cried out, 
"Ah ! wilt thou leave me then without one kiss. 
To slay the very seeds of fear and doubt. 
That glad to-morrow may bring certain bliss ? 
Hast thou forgotten how love lives by this. 
The memory of some hopeful close embrace, 
Low whispered words within some lonely 
place?" 413 

But she, when his bright glittering eyes she 
saw. 

And burning cheeks, cried out, "Alas, alas! 

Must I be quite undone, and wilt thou draw 

A worse fate on me than the first one was ? 

O haste thee from this fatal place to pass ! 

Yet, ere thou goest, take tliis, lest thou 
shouldst deem 

Thou hast been fooled b)^ some strange mid- 
day dream." 420 

^ China 



So saying, blushing Hke a new-kissed maid. 
From off her neck a little gem she drew, 
That, 'twixt those snowy rose-tinged hillocks 

laid. 
The secrets of her glorious beauty knew; 424 
And ere he well perceived what she would do, 
She touched his hand, the gem within it lay, 
And, turning, from his sight she fled away. 

Then at the doorway where her rosy heel 
Had glanced and vanished, he awhile did 

stare, 429 

And still upon his hand he seemed to feel 
The varying kisses of her fingers fair ; 
Then turned he toward the dreary crypt and 

bare. 
And dizzily throughout the castle passed. 
Till by the ruined fane he stood at last. 434 

Then weighing still the gem within his hand, 
He stumbled backward through the cypress 

wood, 
Thinking the while of some strange lovely 

land, 
Where all his life should be most fair and good 
Till on the valley's wall of hills he stood, 439 
And slowly thence passed down unto the bay 
Red with the death of that bewildering day. 

The next day came, and he, who all the 

night 
Had ceaselessly been turning in liis bed, 
Arose and clad himself in armour bright, 
And many a danger he remembered ; 
Storming of towns, lone sieges full of dread, 
That with renown his heart had borne him 

through 
And this thing seemed a little thing to do. 448 

So on he went, and on the way he thought 
Of all the glorious things of yesterda3^ 
Nought of the price whereat they must be 

bought, 
But ever to himself did softly say, 
"No roaming now, my wars are passed away ; 
No long dull days devoid of happiness. 
When such a love my yearning heart shall 

bless." 455 

Thus to the castle did he come at last. 
But when unto the gateway he drew near, 
And underneath its ruined archway passed 
Into a court, a strange noise did he hear, 
And through his heart there shot a pang of 
fear ; 46c 



640 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 



Trembling, he gat his sword into his hand, 
And midmost of the cloisters took his stand. 

But for a while that imknown noise in- 
creased, 
A rattling, that with strident roars did blend. 
And whining moans ; but suddenly it ceased, 
A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end, 
And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend 
Adown the cloisters, and began again 468 
That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain. 

And as it came on towards him, with its 

teeth 
The body of a slain goat did it tear. 
The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe. 
And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair ; 
Then his heart sank, and standing trembling 

there. 
Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful 

ran, 
"Some fiend she was," he said, "the bane^ of 

man." 476 

Yet he abode her still, although his blood 
Curdled within him : the thing dropped the 

goat. 
And creeping on, came close to where he stood. 
And raised its head to him, and wrinkled 

throat. 
Then he cried out and wildly at her smote, 
Shutting his eyes, and turned and from the 

place 482 

Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face. 

But httle things rough stones and tree- 
trunks seemed. 
And if he fell, he rose and ran on still ; 
No more he felt his hurts than if he dreamed, 
He made no stay for valley or steep hill, 
Heedless he dashed through many a foaming 

riU, 
Until he came unto the ship at last 489 

And with no word into the deep hold passed. 

Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean 
gone. 
Folio Aved him not, but crying horribly. 
Caught up within her jaws a block of stone 
And ground it into pow.der, then turned she. 
With cries that folk could hear far out at sea. 
And reached the treasure set apart of old, 
To brood above the hidden heaps of gold. 497 

^ destroyer 



Yet was she seen again on many a day 
By some half-waking mariner, or herd, 
Playing amid the ripples of the bay, 
Or on the hills making all things afeard, 
Or in the wood, that did that castle gird. 
But never any man again durst go 503 

To seek her woman's form, and end her woe. 

As for the man, who knows what things he 

bore? 
What mournful faces peopled the sad night, 
What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore, 
What images of that nigh-gained delight ! 
What dreamed caresses from soft hands and 

white, 
Turning to horrors ere they reached the best : 
What struggles vain, what shame, what huge 

unrest ? 511 

No man he knew, three days he lay and 
raved, 
And cried for death, imtil a lethargy 
Fell on him, and his fellows thought him 

saved ; 
But on the third night he awoke to die ; 
And at Byzantirun doth his body lie 
Between tv/o blossoming pomegranate trees, 
Within the churchyard of the Genoese. 518 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWIN- 
BURNE (183 7-1909) 

CHORUS FROM ATALANTA IN 
CALYDON 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's 
traces, 

The mother of months in meadow or plain 
Fills the shadows and windy places 

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 
And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
Is half assuaged for Itylus,^ 
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. 

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 8 

Come with bows bent and with emptying of 
quivers. 

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 
With a noise of winds and many rivers. 

With a clamour of waters, and with might ; 

^ cf. the nightingale poems in this \'olume and 
the note on Sidney's The Nightingale. 



THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 



641 



Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, 
Over the splendour and speed of thy feet ; 
For the faint- east quickens, the wan west 

shivers. 
Round the feet of the day and the feet of 

the night. 16 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to 
her, 
Fold our hands round her knees, and cling ? 
Oh that man's heart were as fire and could 
spring to her, 
Fire, or the strength of the streams that 
spring ! 
For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 
For the risen stars and the fallen cling ta her 
And the southwest-wind and the west-wind 



smg. 



24 



For winter's rains and ruins are over. 

And all the season of snows and sins ; 
The days dividing lover and lover. 

The light that loses, the night that wins ; 
And time remember'd is grief forgotten. 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, ♦ 
And in green underwood and cover 

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 32 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot. 
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 
And the oat ^ is heard above the lyre, 
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 40 

And Pan- by noon and Bacchus^ by night, 

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. 
Follows with dancing and fills with delight 

The Mienad ■* and the Bassarid ; ^ 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide. 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide. 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 48 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's^ hair 
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes ; 

The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; 

^ reed pipe - god of wild life ^ god of wine 
^ women worshippers of Bacchus 



The wild vine slips with the weight of its 

leaves, 
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that gHtter, the feet that scare 
The wolf that follows, the fawn that fhes. 56 



THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 1 

Here, where the world is quiet ; 

Here, where all trouble seems 
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 

In doubtful dreams of dreams ; 
I watch the green field growing 
For reaping folk and sowing, 
For harvest-time and mowing, 

A sleepy world of streams. 

I am tired of tears and laughter. 

And men that laugh and weep ; 
Of what may come hereafter 
For men that sow to reap : 
I am weary of days and hours, 
Blown buds of barren flowers. 
Desires and dreams and powers 
And everything but sleep. 



16 



24 



Here life has death for neighbour. 
And far from eye or ear 

Wan waves and wet winds labour. 
Weak ships and spirits steer ; 

They drive adrift, and whither 

They wot not who make thither ; 

But no such winds blow hither, 
And no such things grow here. 

No growth of moor or coppice. 

No heather-flower or vine, 
But bloomless buds of poppies. 
Green grapes of Proserpine,- 
Pale beds of blowing rushes, 
Where no leaf blooms or blushes 
Save this whereout she crushes 
For dead men deadly wine. 

Pale, without name or number. 
In fruitless fields of corn. 

They bow themselves and slumber 
All night tfll light is born; 

And like a soid belated. 

In hell and heaven unmated, 



^ the wife of Pluto, god of the infernal regions ; 
she was the daughter of Ceres, goddess of harvests 
- Proserpine, as queen of Hades 



32 



642 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 



By cloud and mist abated 

Comes out of darkness morn. 40 

Though one were strong as seven, 
He too with deatli shall dwell, 

Nor wake with wings in heaven. 
Nor weep for pains in hell ; 

Though one were fair as roses, 

His beauty clouds and closes ; 

And well though love reposes. 

In the end it is not well. 48 



Pale, beyond porch and portal, 

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands 
Who gathers all things mortal 
With cold immortal hands ; 
Her languid lips are sweeter 
Than love's who fears to greet her 
To men that mix and meet her 
From many times and lands. 



56 



She waits for each and other, 
She waits for aU men born ; 
Forgets the earth her mother, 
The life of fruits and corn ; 
And spring and seed and swallow 
Take wing for her and follow 
Where summer song rings hollow 
And flowers are put to scorn. 

There go the loves that wither, 

The old loves with wearier wings ; 
And all dead years draw thither, 

And all disastrous things ; 
Dead dreams of days forsaken. 
Blind buds that snows have shaken, 
Wild leaves that winds have taken. 
Red strays of ruined springs. 

We are not sure of sorrow, 

And joy was never sure ; 
To-day will die to-morrow ; 

Time stoops to no man's lure ; 
And love, grown faint and fretful, 
With Hps but half regretful 
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 

Weeps that no loves endure. 

From too much love of living, 
From hope and fear set free, 

We thank with brief thanksgiving 
Whatever gods may be 

That no Hfe lives forever ; 

That dead men rise up never ; 

That even the weariest river 
Winds somewhere safe to sea. 



64 



72 



80 



Then star nor smi shaU waken, 
Nor any change of light : 

Nor soimd of waters shaken, 
Nor any sound or sight : 

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, 

Nor days nor things diurnal ; 

Only the sleep eternal 
In an eternal night. 



ITYLUS 1 



96 



88 



SwaUow, my sister, O sister swaUow, 

How can thine heart be full of the spring ? 

A thousand summers are over and dead. 

What hast thou found in the spring to follow ? 

What hast thou found in thy heart to sing ? 

What wilt thou do when the simimer is 

shed ? 6 

swaUow, sister, O fair swift swallow. 
Why wUt thou fly after spring to the south, 

The soft south whither thine heart is set? 
Shall not the grief of the old time follow? 

Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy 
, mouth ? 

Hast thou forgotten ere I forget? 12 

Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swaUow, 
Thy way is long to the sun and the 
south ; 
But I, fulfiU'd of m)^ heart's desire, 
Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, 
From tawny body and sweet small mouth 
Feed the heart of the night with fire. 18 

1 the nightingale all spring through, 

O swallow, sister, O changing swallow, 
AU spring through till the spring be done, 
Clothed with the light of the night on the 
dew. 
Sing, while the hours and the wild birds 
follow, 23 

Take flight and follow and find the sun. 

Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, 
Though all things feast in the spring's guest- 
chamber. 
How hast thou heart to be glad thereof 
yet? 
For where thou fliest I shaU not follow, 
Till life forget and death remember. 

Till thou remember and I forget. 30 

^ cf. nole oil Sidney's The Nighlingale 



THE SALT OF THE EARTH 



643 



Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, 
I know not how thou hast heart to sing. 
Hast thou the heart? is it all past over? 
Thy lord the summer is good to follow, 
And fair the feet of thy lover the spring : 
But what wilt thou say to the spring thy 
lover? 36 

O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, 
My heart in me is a molten ember 

And over my head the waves have met. 
But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow 
Could I forget or thou remember, 

Couidst thou remember and I forget. 42 

O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow. 
The heart's division divideth us. 

Thy heart is hght as a leaf of a tree ; 
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow 
To the place of the slaying of Itylus, 
The feast of DauHs, the Thracian sea. 48 

O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, 
I pray thee sing not a little space. 
Are not the roofs and the lintels wet ? 

The woven web ^ that was plain to follow. 
The small slain body, the flower-like face. 



Can I remember if thou forget i 



54 



O sister, sister, thy first -begotten ! 

The hands that cling and the feet that follow. 
The voice of the child's blood crying yet, 
\]'/io hath remembered me? who hath forgotten? 
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, 
But the world shall end when I forget. 60 

ETUDE REALISTE2 
I 

A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink, 

Alight tempt, should heaven see meet, 

An angel's lips to kiss, we think, 

A baby's feet. 4 

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat 

They stretch and spread and wink 
Their ten soft buds that part and meet. 7 

No flowcr-bclls that expand and shrink 

Gleam half so heavenly sweet 
As shine on life's untrodden brink 

A baby's feet. ix 



^ containing the 
study from life 



story of Procne's wrongs 



II 

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled 

Whence yet no leaf expands, 
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled, 

A baby's hands. 4 

Then, fast as warriors grip their brands 

When battle's bolt is hurled. 
They close, clenched hard like tightening 
bands. 7 

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled 
Match, even in loveliest lands, 

The sweetest flowers in all the world — 

A baby's hands. 11 



III 

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin. 

Ere lips learn words or sighs. 
Bless all things bright enough to win 

A baby's eyes. 4 

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies. 

And sleep flows out and in, 
Sees perfect in them Paradise. 7 

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, 
Their speech make dumb the wise, 

By mute glad godhead felt within 

A baby's eyes. 11 



THE SALT OF THE EARTH 

If childhood were not in the world, 
But only men and women grown ; 

No baby-locks in tendrils curled. 

No baby-blossoms blown ; 4 

Though men were stronger, women fairer, 
And nearer all delights in reach, 

And verse and music uttered rarer 

Tones of more godlike speech ; 8 

Though the utmost life of life's best hours 
Found, as it cannot now find, words ; 

Though desert sands were sweet as flowers. 
And flowers could sing like birds, 12 

But children never heard them, never 

They felt a child's foot leap and run ; 

This were a drearier star than ever 

Yet looked upon the sun. 16 



644 



GEORGE MEREDITH 



SONNETS 

ON LAMB'S SPECIMENS OF DRA- 
MATIC POETS 

If all the flowers of all the fields on earth ' 
By wonder-working summer were made one, 
Its fragrance were not sweeter in the sun, 
Its treasure-house of leaves were not more 

worth 
Than those wherefrom thy light of musing 
mirth 
Shone, till each leaf whereon thy pen would 

run 
Breathed life, and aU its breath was benison. 
Beloved beyond all names of English birth. 
More dear than mightier memories ; gentlest 

name 
That ever clothed itself with flower-sweet 

fame. 
Or linked itself with loftiest names of old 1 1 
By right and might of loving ; I, that am 
Less than the least of those within thy fold, 
Give only thanks for them to thee, Charles 
Lamb. 



HOPE AND FEAR 

Beneath the shadow of dawn's aerial cope, 
With eyes enkindled as the sun's own 

sphere, 
Hope from the front of youth in godlike 
cheer 
Looks Godward, past the shades where blind 

men grope 
Round the dark door that prayers nor dreams 
can ope, 
And makes for joy the very darkness dear 
That gives her wide wings play ; nor dreams 

that fear 
At noon may rise and pierce the heart of 

hope. 
Then, when the soul leaves off to dream and 

yearn. 

May truth first purge her eyesight to discern 

What once being known leaves time no 

power to appal ; 1 1 

Till youth at last, ere yet youth be not, 

learn 

The kind wise word that falls from years 

that fall — 
"Hope thou not much, and fear thou not 
at all." 



AFTER SUNSET 

If light of life outlive the set of sun 

That men call death and end of all things, 

then 
How should not that which hfe held best for 
men 
And proved most precious, though it seem 

undone 
By force of death and woful victory won, 
Be first and surest of revival, when 
Death shall bow down to life arisen again? 
So shall the soul seen be the self-same one 
That looked and spake with even such lips 

and eyes 
As love shall doubt not then to recognise, lo 
And all bright thoughts and smiles of all 
time past 
Revive, transfigured, but in spirit and sense 
None other than we knew, for evidence 
That love's last mortal word was not his 
last. 



GEORGE MEREDITH (1828-1909) 

LOVE IN THE VALLEY 

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green- 
sward, 
Couch'd with her arms behind her golden 
head. 
Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, 

Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. 
Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, 
Press her parting lips as her waist I gather 
slow, 
Waking in amazement she could not but em- 
brace me : 
Then would she hold me and never let me 
go? S 



Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swal- 
low, 
Swift as the swallow along the river's light 
Circleting the surface to meet his mirror "d 
winglel s, 
Fleeter she seems in her stay than m her 
flight. 
Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine- 
tops. 
Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of 
sun, 



LOVE IN THE VALLEY 



645 



She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, 

Hard, but oh the glory of the winning were 

she won ! i6 

When her mother tends her before the laugh- 
ing mirror, 
Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, 
Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, 
More love should I have, and much less care. 
When her mother tends her before the Ughted 
mirror, 
Loosening her laces, combing down her 
curls, 
Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, 
I should miss but one for many boys and 
girls. 24 



Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows 
Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. 
No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder : 
Earth to her is young as the slip of the new 
moon. 
Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid 
measure, 
Even as in a dance ; and her smile can heal 
no less : 
Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the 
flowers with hailstones 
Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise 
and bless. 3 2 

Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweep- 
ing 
W^avy in the dusk lit by one large star. 
Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note, un- 
varied. 
Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown 
evejar.^ 
Darker grows the valley, more and more for- 
getting: 
So were it with me if forgetting could be 
wiU'd. 
Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling 
well-spring, 
Tell it to forget the source that keeps it 
fill'd. 40 



Stepping down the hill with her fair com- 
panions, 
Arm in arm, all against the raying West, 

^ a bird similar to the whippoorwill 



Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she 
marches. 
Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess'd. 
Sweeter, for she is vv'hat my heart iirst awaking 
Whisper'd the world was ; morning light is 
she. 
Love that so desires would fain keep her 
changeless ; 
Fain would fling the net, and fain have her 
free. 48 

Happy happy time, when the white star hovers 
Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew. 
Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the 
darkness, 
Threading it with colour, like yewberries 
the yew. 
Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East 
deepens 
Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud 
swells. 
Maiden still the morn is ; and strange she is, 
and secret ; 
Strange her eyes ; her cheeks are cold as cold 
sea-sheUs. 56 



Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and 
lighting 
Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills 
along. 
Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant 
laughter 
Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. 
Ay, but shows the South-West a ripple- 
feather'd bosom 
Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken 
and ascend 
Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there 
comes a sunset 63 

Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. 

When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant 
to the window 
Turns grave eyes craving light, released 
from dreams, 
Beautifid she looks, like a white water-lily 

Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. 
When from bed she rises clothed from neck to 
ankle 
In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of 
IVIay, 
Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily 71 
Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. 



646 



GEORGE MEREDITH 



Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash'd twilight, 
Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, 
Rounding on thy breast sings the dew- 
delighted skylark. 
Clear as though the dew-drops had their 
voice in him, 
Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless 
planet, 
Fountain-fuU he pours the spraying foun- 
tain-showers. 
Let me hear her laughter, I would have her 
ever 
Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the 
flowers. 80 

All the girls are out with their baskets for the 
primrose ; 

Up lanes, woods through, they troop in Sweeter unpossess'd, have I said of her my 

joyful bands. sweetest ? 

My sweet leads : she knows not why, but now Not while she sleeps : while she sleeps the 

she loiters, jasmine breathes. 

Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry 

hands. . jasmine 

Such a look will tell that the violets are peep- Bears me to her pillow under white rose- 



You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, 
Violet, .blushing eglantine in life ; and even 
as they, 
They by the wayside are earnest of your good- 
ness, 
You are of life's, on the banks that line the 
way. 104 



Peering at her chamber the white crowns the 
red rose. 
Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and 
three. 
Parted is the window ; she sleeps ; the starry 
jasmine 
Breathes a falling breath that carries 
thoughts of me. 



uig, 



wreaths. 



Coming the rose : and unaware a cry 
Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass- 



Covert and the nightingale ; she knows not 
why. 



^^lades : 

Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-grey leaf ; 
Yellow with stonecrop ; the moss-mounds are 
yellow ; 
Blue-neck'd the wheat sways, yellowing to 
the sheaf. 



Kerchief'd head and chin she darts between 
her tulips. 

Streaming like a wiUow grey in arrowy Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laugh- 
rain : ing yafile ; ^ 
Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and 
angel -shine : 
She wiU be ; she lifts them, and on she Earth in her heart laughs looking at the 
speeds again. heavens. 
Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron Thinking of the harvest : I look and think 
gateway : of mine. 1 20 
She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking 
mirth. 
So when sky and grass met roUing dumb for This I may know : her dressing and un- 
thunder 95 dressing 

Such a change of light shows as when the 
skies in sport 
Shift from cloud to moonlight ; or edging over 
thunder 
Slips a ray of sun ; or sweeping into port 
W^iite sails furl ; or on the ocean borders 
White sails lean along the waves leaping 
green. 



Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth. 

Prim little scholars are the flowers of her 
garden, 
Train'd to stand in rows, and asking if they 
please. 
I might love them well but for loving more the 
wfld ones : 
O my wild ones! they tell me more than 
these. 



^ the green woodpecker 



LOVE IN THE VALLEY 



647 



Visions of her shower before me, but from 
eyesight 
Guarded she would be hkc the sun were she 
seen. i 28 

Front door and back of the moss'd old farm- 
house 
Open A\ith the morn, and in a breezy Hnk 
Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow'd 
orchard. 
Green across a rill where on sand the min- 
nows wink. 
Busy in the grass the early sim of summer 
Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting 
notes 
Call my darhng up with round and roguish 
challenge : 
Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing 
throats ! 136 



Cool was the woodside; cool as her white 
dairy 
Keeping sweet the cream-pan ; and there 
the boys from school. 
Cricketing below, rush'd brown and red with 
sunshine ; 
O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed 
cool ! 
Sp3''ing from the farm., herself she fetch'd a 
pitcher 
Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the 
beak. 
Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, 
Said, *'I will kiss you": she laugh'd and 
iean'd her cheek. 144 

Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof 
Through the long noon coo, crooning 
through the coo. 
Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy 
roadway 
Sometimes pipes a chaffinch ; loose droops 
the blue. 
Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river, 
Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly. 
Nowhere is she seen ; and if I see her nowhere, 
Lightning may come, straight rains and 
tiger sky. 152 



O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure- 
armful ! 
O the nutbro\\'n tresses nodding interlaced ! 
O the treasure-tresses one another over 



Nodding ! O the girdle slack about the 
waist ! 
Slain are the poppies that shot their random 
scarlet 
Quick amid the wheat-ears : wound about 
the waist, 
Gather'd, see these brides of Earth one blush 
of ripeness ! 159 

O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced ! 

Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, 
Chpp'd by naked hills, on violet shaded 
snow: 
Eastward large and still lights up a bower of 
moonrise. 
Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. 
Nightlong on black print-branches our beech- 
tree 
Gazes in this whiteness : nightlong could 1. 
Here may life on death or death on life be 
painted. 
Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot 
die ! 168 



Gossips count her faults ; they scour a narrow 
chamber 
Where there is no window, read not heaven 
or her. 
"When she was a tiny," one aged woman 
quavers, 
Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. 
Faults she had once as she learn'd to Txxn and 
tumbled : 
Faults of feature some see, beauty not 
complete. 
Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy • 
Earth and air, may have faults from head 
to feet. 176 

Hither she comes ; she comes to me ; she 
hngers. 
Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new 
surprise 
High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger ; 

Yet am I the light and Hving of her eyes. 
Something friends have told her fills her heart 
to brimming, 
Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, 
and tames. — 
Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting. 
Arms up, she dropp'd : our souls were in our 
names. 1 84 



648 



GEORGE MEREDITH 



Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. 
Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale 
as rye, 
Long since your sheaves have yielded to the 
thresher. 
Felt the girdle loosen'd, seen the tresses fly. 
Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. 

Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing'd 

Spring ! 

Sing from the South-west, bring her back the 

truants. 

Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping 

wing. 192 

Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April 
Spreading bough on bough a primrose 
mountain, you 
Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields. 
Youngest green transfused in silver shining 
through ; 
Fairer than the lily, than the wild white 
cherry : 
Fair as in image my seraph love appears 
Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my 
eye-lids: 199 

Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears. 



Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, 
I would speak my heart out : heaven is my 
need. 
Every woodland tree is flushing like the dog- 
wood, 
Flashing like the whitebeam,^ swaying like 
the reed. 
Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October ; 
. Streaming like the flag-reed South-west 

blown ; 
Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted white- 
beam : 207 
All seem to know what is for heaven alone. 

JUGGLING JERRY 

Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes : 

By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. 
It's nigh my last above the daisies : 

My next leaf'll be man's blank page. 
Yes, my old girl ! and it's no use crying : 

Juggler, constable, king, must bow. 
One that outjuggles all's been spying 

Long to have me, and he has me now. 8 

^ a European tree with white flowers and orange- 
red fruits 



We've travelled times to this old common : 

Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. 
We've had a stirring life, old woman ! 

You, and I, and the old grey horse. 
Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, 

Found us coming to their call : 
Now they'll miss us at our stations : 

There's a Juggler outjuggles all ! 16 

Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly ! 

Over the duck-pond the willov/ shakes. 
Easy to think that grieving's folly, 

When the hand's firm as driven stakes ! 
Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and 
manful, 

Life's a sweet fiddle : but we're a batch 
Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful : 

Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch. 24 

Here's where the lads of the village cricket: 

I was a lad not wide from here : 
Couldn't I whip off the bale'- from the 
wicket ? 

Like an old world those days appear ! 
Donkey, sheep, geese and thatched ale-house 
— I know them ! 

They are old friends of my halts, and seem. 
Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them : 3 1 

Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem. 

Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: 

Nature allows us to bait for the fool. 
Holding one's own makes us juggle no little ; 

But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. 
You that are sneering at my profession. 

Haven't you juggled a vast amount? 38 
There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, 

Juggles more games than my sins'll count. 

I've murdered insects with mock thunder : 

Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. 
I've made bread from the bump of wonder : 

That's my business, and there's my tale. 
Fashion and rank all praised the professor : 

Ay ! and I've had my smile from the Queen : 
Bravo, Jerry ! she meant : God bless her ! 

Ain't this a sermon on that scene ? 48 

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy 
Close, and, I reckon, rather true. 

Some are fine fellows : some, right scurvy : 
Most, a dash between the two. 

^ the cross-piece on a cricket wicket ; Jerry 
means he was a good bowler 



BELLEROPHON 



649 



But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me 

Think more kindly of the race : 
And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me 

When the Great Juggler I must face. 59 

We two were married, due and legal : 

Honest we've lived since we've been one. 
Lord ! I could then jump like an eagle : 

You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. 
Birds in a JNIay-bush we were ! right merry ! 

All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day. 
Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry ! 63 

Now from his old girl he's juggled away. 

Il 's past parsons to console us : 

No, nor no doctor fetch for me : 
I can die without my bolus ; 

Two of a trade, lass, never agree ! 
Parson and Doctor ! — don't they love rarely, 

Fighting the devil in other men's fields ! 
Stand up yourself and match him fairly : 

Then see how the rascal yields ! 72 

I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting 

Finery while his poor helpmate grubs : 
Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting : 

You sha'n't beg from the troughs and tubs. 
Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his 
kitchen 

Many a Marquis would hail you Cook ! 
Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich 
in. 

But your old Jerry you never forsook. 80 

Hand up the chirper ! ^ ripe ale winks in it ; 

Let's have comfort and be at peace. 
Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. 

Cheer up ! the Lord must have his lease. 
May be — for none see in that black hollow — 

It's just a place where we're held in pawn. 
And, when the Great Juggler makes as to 
swallow, 

It's just the sword-trick — I ain't quite 
gone. 88 

Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, 

Gold-like and warm : it's the prime of May. 
Better than mortar, brick, and putty, 

Is God's house on a blowing day. 
Lean me more up the mound ; now I feel it : 

All the old heath-smells ! Ain't it strange? 
There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it ! 

But He's by us, juggling the change. 96 

^ cheering cup 



I mind it weU, by the sea-beach lying, 

Once — it's long gone — when two gulls we 
beheld. 
Which, as the moon got up, were flying 

Down a big wave that sparked and swelled. 
Crack went a gun : one feU : the second 

Wheeled round him twice, and was off for 

new luck : 102 

There in the dark her white wing beckon 'd : — 

Drop me a kiss — I'm the bird dead-struck ! 



BELLEROPHON ' 

Maimed, beggared, grey ; seeking an alms ; 

with nod 
Of palsy doing task of thanks for bread ; 

Upon the stature of a god, 
He whom the Gods have struck bends low his 
head. 

Weak words he has, that slip the nerveless 

tongue 
Deformed, like his great frame : a broken arc : 

Once radiant as the javelin flung 
Right at the centre breastplate of his mark. 

Oft pausing on his white-eyed inward look. 
Some undermountain narrative he tells, lo 

As gapped by Lykian '^ heat the brook 
Cut from the source that in the upland. sv/elis. 

The cottagers who dole him fruit and crust, 
With patient inattention hear him prate : 

And comes the snow, and comes the dust, 
Comes the old wanderer, more bent of late. 

A crazy beggar grateful for a meal 
Has ever of himself a world to say. 

For them he is an ancient wheel 19 

Spinning a knotted thread the livelong day. 

He cannot, nor do they, the tale connect; 
For never singer in the land has been 

Who him for theme did not reject : 
Spurned of the hoof that sprang the Hippo- 
crene.^ 

^ In his youth he bridled and rode the winged 
horse Pegasus and slew the monster Chima?ra. 
He was reported to have been killed in attempting 
to fly to heaven. - Lykia (or Lycia), a moun- 
tainous region in .^sia Minor where Bellerophon 
killed Chimaera ^ the fountain struck out on 
!Mt. Helicon by the hoof of Pegasus 



650 



CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 



Albeit a theme of flame to bring them straight 
The snorting white-winged brother of the 
wave/ 
They hear him as a thing by fate 
Cursed in unholy babble to his grave. 

As men that spied the wuags, that heard the 

snort, 
Their sires have told ; and of a martial prince 
Bestriding him; and old report 31 

Speaks of a monster slain by one long since. 

There is that story of the golden bit 

By Goddess 2 given to tame the lightning steed : 

A mortal who could mount, and sit 
Flying, and up Olympus midway speed. 

He rose like the loosed fountain's utmost leap ; 

He played the star at span of heaven right o'er 

Men's heads ; they saw the snowy steep. 

Saw the winged shoulders : him they saw not 

more. 40 

He fell : and says the shattered man, "I fell" : 
And sweeps an arm the height an eagle wins ; 

And in his breast a mouthless well 
Heaves the worn patches of his coat of skins. 

Lo, this is he in whom the surgent springs 
Of recollections richer than our skies 

To feed the flow of tuneful strings, 
Show but a pool of scum for shooting flies. 48 

LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT 

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. 
Tired of his dark dominion, swung the fiend 
Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened. 
Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. 
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. 
x\nd now upon his western wing he leaned, 
Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened, 
Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. 
Soaring through wider zones that pricked his 

scars 
With memory of the old revolt from Awe, 10 
He reached a middle height, and at the stars, 
Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and 

sank. 
Around the ancient track marched, rank on 

rank, 
The army of unalterable law. 

' The horse was a gift to mortals from Neptune, 
god of the sea. ? Minerva 



ASK, IS LOVE DIVINE 

Ask, is Love divine, 

Voices all are, Ay. 
Question for the sign, 

There's a common sigh. 

Would we through our years 

Love forego, 
Quit of scars and tears? 

Ah, but no, no, no ! 

SONG OF THE SONGLESS 

They have no song, the sedges dry, 

And stiU the)^ sing. 

It is within my breast they sing. 

As I pass by. 

Within my breast they touch a spring, 

They wake a sigh. 

There is but sound of sedges dry ; 

In me they sing. 

DIRGE IN WOODS 

A wind sways the pines. 

And below 
Not a breath of wild air ; 
Still as the mosses that glow 
On the flooring and over the lines 
Of the roots here and there. 
The pine-tree drops its dead ; 
The}^ are quiet as under the sea. 
Overhead, overhead 
Rushes life in a race, 
As the clouds the clouds chase : 

And we go. 
And we drop like the fruits of the tree, 

Even we. 

Even so. 



CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 

(1830-1894) 

THE BRIDE-SONG 

From THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS 

Too late for love, too late for joy ! 

Too late ! too late ! 
You loitered on the road too long, 

You trifled at the gate : 
The enchanted dove upon her branch 

Died without a mate ; 



THE FIRST DAY 



651 



The enchanted princess in her tower 

Slept, died, behind the grate; 
Her heart was starving all this while 

You made it wait. 10 

Ten years ago, five years ago, 

One year ago, — 
Even then you had arrived in time, 

Though somewhat slow ; 
Then you had known her living face, 

Which now you cannot know : 
The frozen fountain would have leaped, 

The buds gone on to blow. 
The warm south wind would have awaked 

To melt the snow. 20 

Is she fair now as she lies? 

Once she was fair ; 
JNIeet queen for any kingly king, 

With gold-dust on her hair. 
Now these are poppies in her locks, 

White poppies she must wear ; 
Must wear a veil to shroud her face 

And the want graven there : 
Or is the hunger fed at length. 

Cast ofi' the care? 30 

We never saw her with a smile 

Or with a frown ; 
Her bed seemed never soft to her, 

Though tossed of down ; 
She little heeded what she wore, 

Kirtle, or wreath, or gown ; 
We think her white brows often ached 

Beneath her crown. 
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks 

That used to be so brown. 40 

We never heard her speak in haste : 

Her tones were sweet, 
And modulated just so much 

As it was meet : 
Her heart sat sUent through the noise 

And concourse of the street. 
There was no hurry in her hands, 

No hurry in her feet ; 
There was no bliss drew nigh to her, 

That she might run to greet. 50 

You should have wept her yesterday. 

Wasting upon her bed : 
But wherefore should you weep to-day 

That she is dead? 
Lo, we who love weep not to-day, 

But crown her royal head. 



Let be these poppies that we strew, 

Your roses are too red : 
Let be these poppies, not for you 

Cut down and spread. 60 



A BIRTHDAY 

My heart is like a singing bird 

Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; 
My heart is like an apple-tree 

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit ; 
My heart is like a rainbow shell 

That paddles in a halcyon sea ; 
My heart is gladder than all these 

Because my love is come to me. 8 



Raise me a dais of silk and down ; 

Hang it with vair ^ and purple dyes ; 
Carve it in doves and pomegranates. 

And peacocks with a hundred eyes ; 
Work it in gold and silver grapes, 

In leaves and silver fleur-de-lys ; 
Because the birthday of my hfe 

Is come, my love is come to me. 



16 



SONG 

When I am dead, my dearest, 

Sing no sad songs for me ; 
Plant thou no roses at my head, 

Nor shady cypress-tree : 
Be the green grass above me 

With showers and dewdrops wet ; 
And if thou wilt, remember. 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain ; 
I shall not hear the nightingale 

Sing on, as if in pain : 
And dreaming through the twilight 

That doth not rise nor set. 
Haply I may remember, 

And haply may forget. 



16 



THE FIRST DAY 

I wish I could remember that first day, 
First hour, first moment of your meeting 
me. 
If bright or dim the season, it might be 

^ a fur much esteemed in ancient times 



652 



JAMES THOMSON 



Summer or Winter for aught I can say ; 

So unrecorded did it slip away, 

So blind was I to see and to foresee. 
So dull to mark the budding of my tree 

That would not blossom yet for many a 
May. 

If only I could recollect it, such 

A day of days ! I let it come and go 10 
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow ; 

It seemed to mean so little, meant so much ; 

If only now I could recall that touch. 

First touch of hand in hand — Did one but 
know I 

REMEMBER 

Remember me when I am gone away, 
Gone far away into the silent land ; 
When you can no more hold me by the 
hand. 

Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. 

Remember me when no more, day by day, . 
You tell me of our future that you planned : 
Only remember me ; you understand 

It will be late to counsel then or pray. 

Yet if you should forget me for a while 9 

And afterwards remember, do not grieve : 
For if the darkness and corruption leave 
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, 

Better by far you should forget and smile 
Than that you should remember and be sad. 



REST 

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes ; 

Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, 

Earth ; 
Lie close around her ; leave no room for 
mirth 
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of 

sighs. 
She hath no questions, she hath no replies. 
Hushed in and curtained with a blessed 

dearth 
Of all that irked her from the hour of birth ; 
With stillness that is almost Paradise. 
Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth 
her. 
Silence more musical than any song ; 10 
Even her very heart has ceased to stir : 
Until the morning of Eternity 
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be ; 
And when she wakes she will not think it 
long. 



THE LOWEST PLACE 

Give me the lowest place : not that I dare 
Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast 
died 

That I might live and share 

Thy glory by Thy side. 4 

Give me the lowest place : or if for me 

That lowest place too high, make one more 
low 

Where I may sit and see 

My God and love Thee so. 8 

JAMES THOMSON (1834-1882) 

*From the city of dreadful NIGHT 

As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : AU was black, 
In heaven no single star, on earth no track ; 
A brooding hush without a stir or note. 
The air so thick it clotted in my throat ; 
And thus for hours ; then some enormous things 
Swooped past with savage cries and clanking 
wings : 

But I strode on austere ; 

No hope could have no fear. 176 

As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : Eyes of fire 
Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire ; 
The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath 
Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death ; 
Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold 
Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold : 

But I strode on austere ; 

No hope could have no fear. 185 

As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : Lo 5'^ou, there, 
That hillock burning with a brazen glare ; 
Those myriad dusky flames with points a-glow 
Which writhed and hissed and darted to and 

fro; 
A Sabbath of the Serpents, heaped pell-mell 
For Devil's roll-call and some fete of Hell : 

Yet I strode on austertf ; 

No hope could have no fear. 194 

As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : Meteors ran 
And crossed their javelins on the black sky- 
span; 



SUNDAY UP THE RIVER 



653 



The zenith opened to a gulf of fiame, 

The dreadful thunderbolts jarred earth's fixed 

frame ; 
The ground all heaved m waves of fire that 

surged 
And weltered round me sole there unsub- 
merged : 

Yet I strode on austere ; 

No hope could have no fear. 203 

As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : Air once more, 
And I was close upon a wild sea-shore ; 
Enormous cliffs arose on either hand. 
The deep tide thundered up a league-broad 

strand ; 
White foambelts seethed there, wan spray 

swept and flew ; 
The sky broke, moon and stars and clouds and 

blue: 

And I strode on austere ; 

No hope could have no fear. 212 

As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : On the left 
The sun arose and crowned a broad crag-cleft ; 
There stopped and burned out black, except a 

rim, 
A bleeding eyeless socket, red and dim ; 
Whereon the moon fell suddenly south-west. 
And stood above the right-hand cliffs at rest : 
Still I strode on austere ; 
No hope could have no fear. 221 

As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : From the 

right 
A shape came slowly with a ruddy light ; 
A woman with a red lamp in her hand. 
Bareheaded and barefooted on that strand; . 
O desolation moving with such grace ! 
anguish with such beauty in thy face ! 

I fell as on my bier, 

Hope travailed with such fear. 230 

As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : I was twain, 
Two selves distinct that cannot join again ; 
One stood apart and knew but could not stir, 
And watched the other stark in swoon and 

her; 
.And she came on, and never turned aside, 
Between such sun and moon and roaring tide : 
And as she came more near 
My soul grew mad with fear. 239 



As I came through the desert thus it was, 
As I came through the desert : Hell is mild 
.Aad piteous matched with that accursed wild ; 
A large black sign was on her breast that 

bowed, 
A broad black band ran down her snow-white 

shroud ; 
That lamp she held was her own burning 

heart, 
Whose blood-drops trickled step by step 

apart : 

The mystery was clear ; 

Mad rage had swallowed fear. 248 

As I came through the desert thus it was. 
As I came through the desert : By the sea 
She knelt and bent above that senseless me ; 
Those lamp-drops fell upon my white brow 

there, 
She tried to cleanse them with her tears and 

hair ; 
She murmured words of pity, love, and woe. 
She heeded not the level rushing flow : 
And mad with rage and fear, 
I stood stonebound so near. 257 

As I came through the desert thus it was. 
As I came through the desert : When the tide 
Swept up to her there kneeling by my side, 
She clasped that corpse-like me, and they 

were borne 
Away, and this vile me was left forlorn ; 
I know the whole sea cannot quench that 

heart. 
Or cleanse that brow, or wash those two 
apart : 

They love ; their doom is drear, 

Yet they nor hope nor fear ; 

But I, what do I here? 267 



From SUNDAY UP THE RIVER 



XV 



Give a man a horse he can ride, 

Give a man a boat he can sail ; 
And his rank and wealth, his strength and 
health, 

On sea nor shore shall fail. 4 

Give a man a pipe he can smoke, 
Give a man a book he can read ; 

And his home is bright with a calm delight. 
Though the room be poor indeed. 8 



654 



WALTER PATER 



Give a man a girl he can love, 

As I, O my Love, love thee ; 
And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, 

At home, on land, on sea. 1 2 

ART 
II 

If you have a carrier-dove 

That can fly over land and sea ; 

And a message for your Love, 

"Lady, I love but thee!" 4 

And this dove will never stir 

But straight from her to you, 
And straight from you to her ; 

As you know and she knows too. 8 

Will you first ensure, O sage, 

Your dove that never tires 
With your message in a cage. 

Though a cage of golden wires ? 12 

Or will you fling your dove : 

"Fly, darling, without rest. 
Over land and sea to my Love, 

And fold your wings in her breast?" 16 



WALTER PATER (1839-1894) 



From STYLE 



What, then, did Flaubert^ understand by 
beauty, in the art he pursued with so much 
fervour, with so much self-command ? Let us 
hear a sympathetic commentator : — 

"Possessed of an absolute belief that there 
exists but one way of expressing one thing, one 
word to call it by, one adjective to qualify, 
one verb to animate it, he gave himself to 
superhuman labour for the discovery, in every 
phrase, of that word, that verb, that epithet. 
In this way, he believed in some mysterious 
harmony of expression, and when a true word 
seemed to him to lack euphony still went on 
seeking another, with invincible patience, cer- 
tain that he had not yet got hold of the unique 
word. ... A thousand preoccupations 

^ Gustave Flaubert (1821-80), a French nov- 
elist, noted for his ideas on the art of writing. 



would beset him at the same moment, always 
with this desperate certitude fixed in his spirit : 
Among all the expressions in the world, all 
forms and turns of expression, there is but one 
— one form, one mode — • to express what I 
want to say." 

The one word for the one thing, the one 
thought, amid the multitude of words, terms, 
that might just do : the problem of style was 
there ! — the unique word, phrase, sentence, 
paragraph, essay, or song, absolutely proper 
to the single mental presentation or vision 
within. In that perfect justice, over and 
above the many contingent and removable 
beauties with which beautiful style may 
charm us, but which it can exist without, 
independent of them yet dexterously availing 
itself of them, omnipresent in good work, in 
function at every point, from single epithets 
to the rhythm of a Avhole book, lay the 
specific, indispensable, vdry intellectual, 
beauty of literature, the possibihty of which 
constitutes it a fine art. 

One seems to detect the influence of a philo- 
sophic idea there, the idea of a natural econ- 
omy, of some preexistent adaptation, between 
a relative, somewhere in the world of thought, 
and its correlative, somewhere in the world of 
language — both alike, rather, somewhere in 
the mind of the artist, desiderative, expectant, 
inventive — meeting each other with the readi- 
ness of "soul and body rermited," in Blake's^ 
rapturous design ; and, in fact, Flaubert was 
fond of giving his theory philosophical expres- 
sion. 

"There are no beautiful thoughts," he 
would say, "without beautiful forms, and 
conversely. As it is ihipossible to extract 
from a physical body the qualities which 
really constitute it — colour, extension, and 
the like — ■ without reducing it to a hollow 
abstraction, in a Avord, without destroying it ; 
just so it is impossible to detach the form 
from the idea, for the idea only exists by 
virtue of the form." 

All the recognised flowers, the removable 
ornaments of literature (including harjnony 
and ease in reading aloud, very carefully con- 
sidered by him) counted certainly ; for these 
too are part of the actual value of what one 
says. But still, after all, with Flaubert, the 
search, the unwearied research, was not for 
the smooth, or winsome, or forcible word, as 

^ William Blake, poet and engraver 



STYLE 



65s 



such, as with false Ciceronians,^ but quite 
simply and honestly for the word's adjustment 
to its meaning. The first condition of this 
must be, of course, to know yourself, to have 
ascertained your own sense exactly. Then, 
if we suppose an artist, he says to the reader, 
— I want you to see precisely what I see. 
Into the mmd sensitive to "form," a flood of 
random sounds, colours, incidents, is ever 
penetrating from the world without, to be- 
come, by sympathetic selection, a part of its 
very structure, and, in turn, the visible 
vesture and expression of that other world it 
sees so steadily witliin, nay, already with a 
partial conformity thereto, to be refined, 
enlarged, corrected, at a hmidred points ; and 
it is just there, just at those doubtful points 
that the function of style, as tact or taste, 
intervenes. The unique term will come more 
quickly to one than another, at one time than 
another, according also to the kind of matter 
in question. Quickness and slowness, ease 
and closeness alike, have nothing to do with 
the artistic character of the true word found 
at last. As there is a charm of ease, so there is 
also a special charm in the signs of discovery, 
of effort and contention towards a due end, 
as so often with Flaubert himself — in the 
style which has been pliant, as only obstinate, 
durable metal can be, to the inherent per- 
plexities and recusancy of a certain difficult 
thought. 

If Flaubert had not told us, perhaps we 
should never have guessed how tardy and 
pamful his own procedure really was, and 
after reading his confession may think that 
his almost endless hesitation had much to do 
with diseased nerves. Often, perhaps, the 
felicity supposed will be the product of a 
happier, a more exuberant nature than Flau- 
bert's. Aggravated, certainly, by a morbid 
physical condition, that anxiety in "seeking 
the phrase," ^yhich gathered all the other 
small ennuis of a really qmet existence into a 
kind of battle, was connected with his life- 
long contention against facile poetry, facile 
art — art, facile and flimsy; and what con- 
stitutes the true artist is not the slowness or 
quickness of the process, but the absolute 
success of the result. 



^ those who regard Cicero's style as the only 
correct model 



Coming slowly or quickly, when it comes, as 
it came with so much labour of mind, but also 
with so much lustre, to Gustave Flaubert, 
this discovery of the word will be, like all 
artistic success and fehcity, incapable of strict 
analysis : effect of an intuitive condition of 
mind, it must be recognised by like intuition 
on the part of the reader, and a sort of im- 
mediate sense. In every one of those mas- 
terly sentences of Flaubert there was, below 
all mere contrivance, shaping and after- 
thought, by some happy instantaneous con- 
course of the various facilities of the mind with 
each other, the exact apprehension of what 
was needed to carry the meaning. And that 
it fits with absolute justice will be a judgment 
of immediate sense in the appreciative reader. 
We all feel this in what may be called inspired 
translation. Well ! all language involves 
translation from inward to outward. In liter- 
ature, as in all forms of art, there are the 
absolute and the merely relative or accessory 
beauties ; and precisely in that exact propor- 
tion of the term to its purpose is the absolute 
beauty of style, prose or verse. All the good 
qualities, the beauties, of verse also, are such, 
only as precise expression. 

In the highest as m the lowliest literature, 
then, the one indispensable beauty is, after all, 
truth : — truth to bare fact in the latter, as to 
some personal sense of fact, diverted some- 
what from men's ordinary sense of it, in the 
former ; truth there as accuracy, truth here as 
expression, that finest and most intimate form 
of truth, the vraie verite. And what an 
eclectic principle this really is ! employing for 
its one sole purpose — that absolute accord- 
ance of expression to idea — all other liter- 
ary beauties and excellences whatever : how 
many kinds of style it covers, explains, 
justifies, and at the same time safeguards ! 
Scott's facility, Flaubert's deeply pondered 
evocation of "thQ phrase," are equally good 
art. Say what you have to say, what you 
have a will to say, in the simplest, the most 
direct and exact manner possible, with no 
surplusage : — there, is the justification of 
the sentence so fortunately born, "entire, 
smooth, and round," that it needs no punctua- 
tion, and also (that is the point!) of the most 
elaborate period, if it be right in its elabora- 
tion. Here is the office of ornament : here 
also the purpose of restramt in ornament. 
As the exponent of truth, that austerity (the 
beauty, the function, of wliich in literature 



656 



WALTER PATER 



Flaubert understood so well) becomes not 
the correctness or purism of the mere scholar, 
but a security against the otiose, a jealous 
exclusion of what does not really tell towards 
the pursuit of relief, of life and vigour in 
the portraiture of one's sense. License again, 
the making free with rule, if it be indeed, as 
people fancy, a habit of genius, flinging aside 
or transforming all that opposes the liberty of 
beautiful production, will be but faith to one's 
own meaning. The seeming baldness of 
Le Rouge et Le Noir ^ is nothing in itself ; the 
wild ornament of Les Miser ables"^ is nothing 
in itself ; and the restraint of Flaubert, amid a 
real natural opulence, only redoubled beauty 
— the phrase so large and so precise at the 
same time, hard as bronze, in service to the 
more perfect adaptation of words to their 
matter. Afterthoughts, retouchings, finish, 
will be of profit only so far as they too really 
serve to bring out the original, initiative, 
generative, sense in them. 
■ In this way, according to the well-known 
saying,^ "The style is the man," complex or 
simple, in his individuality, his plenary sense 
of what he really has to say, his sense of the 
world; all cautions regarding style arising 
out of so many natural scruples as to the 
medium through which alone he can expose 
that inward sense of things, the purity'of this 
medium, its laws or tricks of refraction : 
nothing is to be left there which might give 
conveyance to any matter save that. Style 
in all its varieties, reserved or opulent, terse, 
abundant, musical, stimulant, academic, so 
long as each is really characteristic or expres- 
sive, finds thus its justification, the sumptu- 
ous good taste of Cicero being as truly the 
man himself, and not another, justified, yet 
insured inalienably to him, thereby, as would 
have been his portrait by Raffaelle,^ in full 
consular splendour, on his ivory chair. 

A relegation, you may ^ay perhaps — a 
relegation of style to the subjectivity, the 
mere caprice, of the individual, which must 
soon transform it into mannerism. Not so ! 
since there is, under the conditions supposed, 
for those elements of the man, for every linea- 
ment of the vision within, the one word, the 

' a famous novel by Stendhal (Henri Beyle, 
1783-1842), whom Flaubert greatly admired 
^ by Victor Hugo (1802-85) ^ by the celebrated 
French naturalist, BuQon (1707-88) ^ cf. note 
on Browning's One Word More, 1. 5 



one acceptable word, recognisable by the 
sensitive, by others "who have intelligence" 
in the matter, as absolutely as ever anything 
can be in the evanescent and delicate region 
of human language. The style, the manner, 
would be the man, not in his unreasoned and 
really uncharacteristic caprices, involuntary 
or affected, but in absolutely sincere appre- 
hension of what is most real to him. But 
let us hear our French guide again. — 

"Styles," says Flaubert's commentator, 
"Styles, as so many peculiar moulds, each of 
which bears the mark of a particular writer, 
who is to pour into it the whole content of his 
ideas, were no part of his theory. What he 
believed in was Style: that is to say, a certain 
absolute and unique manner of expressing a 
thing, in all its intensity and colour. For 
him the form was the work itself. As in 
living creatures, the blood, nourishing the 
body, determines its very contour and external 
aspect, just so, to his mind, the matter, the basis, 
in a work of art, imposed, necessarily, the 
unique, the just expression, the measure, the 
rhythm — • the form in all its characteristics." 

If the style be the man, in all the colour and 
intensity of a veritable apprehension, it will 
be in a real sense "impersonal." 

I said, thinking of books like Victor Hugo's 
Les Miserables, that prose literature was the 
characteristic art of the nineteenth century, 
as others, thinking of its triumphs since the 
youth of Bach,^ have assigned that place to 
music. Music and prose literature are, in 
one sense, the opposite terms of art ; the art 
of literature presenting to the imagination, 
through the intelligence, a range of interests, 
as free and various as those which music 
presents to it through sense. And certainly 
the tendency of what has been here said is 
to bring literature too under those condi- 
tions, by conformity to which music takes 
rank as the typically perfect art. If music 
be the ideal of all art whatever, precisely 
because in music it is impossible to dis- 
tinguish the form from the substance or 
matter, the subject from the expression, 
then, literature, by finding its specific ex- 
cellence in the absolute correspondence of 
the term to its import, will be but fulfilling 
the condition of all artistic quality in things 
everywhere, of all good art. 

^ Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750), one of 
the greatest of modern composers of music 



THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE 



657 



Good art, but not necessarily great art ; 
the distinction between great art and good 
art depending immediately, as regards litera- 
ture at all events, not on its form, but on the 
matter. Thackeray's Esmond, surely, is 
greater art than Vanity Fair, by the greater 
dignity of its interests. It is on the quality 
of the matter it informs or controls, its com- 
pass, its variety, its alliance to great ends, 
or the depth of the note of revolt, or the 
largeness of hope in it, that the greatness of 
literary art depends, as TJie Divine Comedy, 
Paradise Lost, Les Miserables, The English 
Bible, are great art. Given the conditions 
I have tried to explain as constituting good 
art ; — then, if it be devoted further to the 
increase of men's happiness, to the redemp- 
tion of the oppressed, or the enlargement 
of our sympathies with each other, or to 
such presentment of new or old truth about 
ourselves and our relation to the world as 
may ennoble and fortify us in our sojourn 
here, or immediately, as with Dante, to the 
glor}^ of God, it will be also great art ; if, 
over and above those qualities I summed up 
as mind and soul — that colour and mystic 
perfume, and that reasonable structure, it 
has something of the soul of humanity in it, 
and finds its logical, its architectural place, 
in the great structure of human life. 



From THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE 

As Florian Deleal walked, one hot after- 
noon, he overtook by the wayside a poor 
aged man, and, as he seemed weary with 
the road, helped him on with the burden 
which he carried, a certain distance. And 
as the man told his story, it chanced that 
he named the place, a little place in the 
neighbourhood of a great city, where Florian 
had passed his earliest years, but which he 
had never since seen, and, the story told, 
went forward on his journey comforted. 
And that night, like a reward for his pity, 
a dream of that place came to Florian, a 
dream which did for him the office of the 
finer sort of memory, bringing its object to 
mind with a great clearness, yet, as some- 
times happens in dreams, raised a little above 
itself, and above ordinary retrospect. The 
true aspect of the place, especially of the 
house there in which he had lived as a child, 
the fashion of its doors, its hearths, its win- 



dows, the very scent upon the air of it, was 
with him in sleep for a season; only, with 
tints more" musically blent on wall and floor, 
and some finer light and shadow running in 
and out along its curves and angles, and with 
all its little carvings daintier. He awoke 
with a sigh at the thought of almost thirty 
years which lay between him and that place, 
yet with a flutter of pleasure still within him 
at the fair light, as if it were a smile, upon 
it. And it happened that this accident of 
his dream was just the thing needed for the 
beginning of a certain design he then had in 
view, the noting, namely, of some things in 
the story of his spirit — in that process of 
brain-building by which we are, "each one of 
us, what we are. With the image of the 
place so clear and favourable upon him, he 
fell to thinking of himself therein, and how 
his thoughts had grown up to him. In that 
half-spiritualised house he could watch the 
better, over again, the gradual expansion 
of the soul which had come to be there — of 
which indeed, through the law which makes 
the material objects about them so large an 
element in children's lives, it had actually 
become a part ; inward and outward being 
woven through and through each other into 
one inextricable texture — half, tint and trace 
and accident of homely colour and form, from 
the wood and the bricks ; half, mere soul- 
stuff, floated thither from who knows how 
far. In the house and garden of his dream 
he saw a child moving, and could divide the 
main streams at least of the winds that had 
played on him, and study so the first stage in 
that mental journey. 

The old house, as when Florian talked of it 
afterwards he always called it (as all children 
do, who can recollect a change of home, soon 
enough but not too soon to mark a period in 
their lives) , really was an old house ; and an 
element of French descent in its inmates — 
descent from Watteau,^ the old court-painter, 
one of whose gallant pieces still hung in one 
of the rooms — might explain, together with 
some other things, a noticeable trimness and 
comely whiteness about everything there — 
the curtains, the couches, the paint on the 
walls with which the light and shadow played 

^ Jean Antoine Watteau (1684-1721), a cel- 
ebrated I'^rench painter of elegant and graceful 
shepherds and shepherdesses (courtiers in dis- 
guise) 



658 



WALTER PATER 



so delicately ; might explain also the tolerance 
of the great poplar in the garden, a tree most 
often despised by English people,* but which 
French people love, having observed a certain 
fresh way its leaves have of deahng with the 
wind, making it sound, in never so slight a 
stirring of the air, like running water. 

The old-fashioned, low wamscoting went 
round the rooms, and up the staircase with 
carved balusters and shadowy angles, landing 
half-way up at a broad window, with a 
swallow's nest below the sill, and the blossom 
of an old pear-tree showing across it in late 
AprU, against the blue, below which the per- 
fumed juice of the find of fallen fruit in autumn 
was so fresh. At the next turning came the 
closet which held on its deep shelves the best 
china. Little angel faces and reedy flutings 
stood out round the fireplace of the children's 
room. And on the top of the house, above 
the large attic, where the white mice ran in 
the twUight — an infinite, unexplored won- 
derland of childish treasures, glass beads, 
empty scent-bottles still sweet, thrums^ of 
coloured silks, among its lumber — a flat 
space- of roof, railed rovmd, gave a view of 
the neighbouring steeples ; for the house, 
as I said, stood near a great city, which sent 
up heavenwards, over the twisting weather- 
vanes, not seldom, its beds of rolling cloud 
and smoke, touched with storm or sunshine. 
But the child of whom I am writing did not 
hate the fog, because of the crimson lights 
which fell from it sometimes upon the chim- 
neys, and the whites which gleamed through 
its openings, on summer mornings, on turret 
or pavement. For it is false to suppose that 
a child's sense of beauty is dependent on 
any choiceness or special fineness, in the 
objects which present themselves to it, 
though this indeed comes to be the rule with 
most of us in later life ; earlier, in some de- 
gree, we see inwardly ; and the child finds 
for itself, and with unstinted delight, a difter- 
ence for the sense, in those whites and reds 
through the smoke on very homely buildings, 
and in the gold of the dandelions at the road- 
side, just beyond the houses, where not a 
handful of earth is virgin and untouched, in 
the lack of better ministries to its desire of 
beauty. 

This house then stood not far beyond the 
gloom and rumours of the town, among high 

^ short lengths 



garden-walls, bright all summer-time with 
Golden-rod, and brown-and-golden Wall- 
flower — Flos Parietis, as the children's 
Latin-reading father taught them to call it, 
while he was with them. Tracing back the 
threads of his complex spiritual habit, as 
he was used in after years to do, Florian 
found that he owed to the place many, tones 
of sentiment afterwards customary with him, 
certain inward lights under which things 
most naturally presented themselves to him. 
The coming and -going of travellers to the 
town along the way, the shadow of the 
streets, the sudden breath of the neighbour- 
ing gardens, the singular brightness of bright 
weather there, its singular darknesses which 
linked themselves in his mind to certain 
engraved illustrations in the old big Bible 
at home, the coolness of the dark, cavernous 
shops round the great church, with its giddy 
winding stair up to the pigeons and the bells 
— a citadel of peace in the heart of the 
trouble — all this acted on his childish fancy, 
so that ever afterwards the like aspects and 
incidents never failed to throw him into a 
well-recognized imaginative mood, seeming, 
actually to have become a part of the texture 
of his mind. Also, Florian could trace home 
to this point a pervading preference in him- 
self for a kind of comeliness and dignity, an 
urbanity literally, in modes of life, which he 
connected with the pale people of towns, and 
which made him susceptible to a kind of ex- 
quisite satisfaction in the trimness and well- 
considered grace of certain things and per- 
sons he afterwards met with, here and there, 
in his way through the world. 

So the child of whom I am. writing lived on 
there quietly ; things without thus minister- 
ing to him, as he sat daily at the window 
with the birdcage hanging below it, and his 
mother taught him to read, wondering at 
the ease with which he learned, and at the 
quickness of his memory. The perfume of 
the little flowers of the lime-tree fell through 
the air upon them like rain; while time 
seemed to move ever more slowly to the 
murmur of the bees in it, till it almost stood 
still on June afternoons. How insignificant, 
at the moment, seem the influences of the 
sensible things which are tossed and fall 
and lie about us, so, or so, in the environ- 
ment of early childhood. How indelibly, as 
we afterwards discover, they affect us ; with 
what capricious attractions and associations 



THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE 



659 



they figure themselves on the white paper/ 
the smooth wax, of our ingenuous souls, as 
"with lead in the rock forever," - giving form 
and feature, and as it were assigned house- 
room in our memory, to early experiences of 
feeling and thought, which abide with us 
ever afterwards, thus, and not otherwise. 
The reahties and passions, the rumours of the 
greater world without, steal in upon us, each 
by its own special little passage-way, through 
the wall of custom about us ; and never after- 
wards quite detach themselves from this or 
that accident, or trick, in the mode of their 
first entrance to us. Our susceptibilities, the 
discovery of our powers, manifold experiences 
— our various experiences of the coming and 
going of bodily pain, for instance — belong to 
this or the other well-remembered place in the 
material habitation — that little white room 
with the window across which the heavy 
blossoms could beat so peevishly in the wind, 
with just that particular catch or throb, such 
a sense of teasing in it, on gusty mornings; 
and the early habitation thus gradually be- 
comes a sort of material shrine or sanctuary 
of sentiment ; a system of visible symbohsrn 
interweaves itself through all our thoughts and 
passions ; and irresistibly, little shapes, voices, 
accidents — the angle at which the sun in the 
morning fell on the pillow — become parts of 
the great chain wherewith we are bound. 

Thus far, for Florian, what all this had 
determined was a peculiarly strong sense of 
home — so forcible a motive with all of us — 
prompting to us our customary love of the 
earth, and the larger part of our fear of death, 
that revulsion we have from it, as from some- 
thing strange, untried, imfriendly ; though 
lifelong imprisonment, they tell you, and final 
banishment from home is a thing bitterer still ; 
the looking forward to but a short space, a 
mere childish goiiter^ and dessert of it, before 
the end, being so great a resource of effort 
to pilgrims and wayfarers, and the soldier in 
distant quarters, and lending, in lack of that, 
some power of solace to the thought of sleep 
in the home churchyard, at least — dead 
cheek by dead cheek, and with the rain soak- 
ing in upon one from- above. 

^ The comparison of the infant mind to a sheet 
of blank paper ready to be written upon, orig- 
inated with the philosopher John Locke; it is 
practically the same as Aristotle's figure of a 
smooth wax tablet. - of. Job, xi\ : 24 ^ taste 



So powerful is this instinct, and yet acci- 
dents like those I have been speaking of so 
mechanically determine it ; its essence being 
indeed the early familiar, as constituting our 
ideal, or typical conception, of rest and secu- 
rity. Out of so many possible conditions, 
just this for you and that for me, brings ever 
the unmistakable realisation of the delightful 
chez soi;^ this for the Englishman, for me and 
you, with the closely-drawn white curtain and 
the shaded lamp ; that, quite other, for the 
wandering Arab, who folds his tent every 
morning, and makes his sleeping-place among 
haunted ruins, or in old tombs. 

With Florian then the sense of home be- 
came singularly intense, his good fortune being 
that the special character of his home was in 
itself so essentially home-like. As after many 
wanderings I have come to fancy that some 
parts of Surrey and Kent are, for Englishmen, 
the true landscape, true home-countries, by 
right, partly, of a certain earthy warmth in 
the yellow of the sand below their gorse- 
bushes, and of a certain gray-blue mist after 
rain, in the hollows of the hills there, welcome 
to fatigued eyes, and never seen farther south ; 
so I think that the sort of house I have de- 
scribed, with precisely those proportions of 
red-brick and green, and with a just per- 
ceptible monotony in the subdued order of it, 
for its distinguishing note, is for Englishmen 
at least typically home-like. And so for 
Florian that general human instinct Avas rein- 
forced b}'' this special home-likeness in the 
place his wandering soul had happened to 
light on, as, in the second degree, its body 
and earthly tabernacle ; the sense of harmony 
between his soul and its physical environment 
became, for a time at least, like perfectly 
played music, and the life led there singularly 
tranquil and filled with a curious sense of 
self-possession. The love of security, of an 
habitually undisputed standing-ground or 
sleeping-place, came to comit for much in the 
generation and correcting of his thoughts, and 
afterwards as a salutar}^ principle of restraint 
in all his wanderings of spirit. The wistful 
yearning towards home, in absence from it, 
as the shadows of evening deepened, and he 
followed in thought what was doing there 
from hour to hour, interpreted to him much 
of a yearning and regret he experienced af- 
terwards, towards he knew not what, out of 

^ "homey-ness " 



66o 



WALTER PATER 



strange ways of feeling and thought in which, 
from time to time, his spirit found itself alone ; 
and in the tears shed in such absences there 
seemed always to be some soul-subduing fore- 
taste of what his last tears might be. 
And the sense of security could hardly have 
been deeper, the quiet of the child's soul being 
one with the quiet of its home, a place "en- 
closed" and "sealed." But upon this assured 
place, upon the child's assured soul which 
resembled it, there came floating in from the 
larger world without, as at windows left ajar 
unknowingly, or over the high garden walls, 
two streams of impressions, the sentiments of 
beauty and pain — recognitions of the visible, 
tangible, audible, loveliness of things, as a very 
real and somewhat tyrannous element in them 
— and of the sorrow of the world, of grown 
people and children and animals, as a thing 
not to be put by in them. From this point 
he could trace two predominant processes of 
mental change in him — the growth of an 
almost diseased sensibility to the spectacle of 
suffering, and, parallel with this, the rapid 
growth of a certain capacity of fascination by 
bright colour and choice form — the sweet 
curvings, for instance, of the lips of those 
who seemed to him comely persons, modu- 
lated in such delicate unisons to the things 
they said or sang, — marking early the ac- 
tivity in him of a more than customary sen- 
suousness, "the lust of the eye,"^ as the 
Preacher says, which might lead him, one day, 
how far ! Could he have foreseen the weari- 
ness of the way ! In music sometimes the 
two sorts of impressions came together, and 
he would weep, to the surprise of older people. 
Tears of joy too the child knew, also to older 
people's surprise ; real tears, once, of relief 
from long-strung, childish expectation, when 
he found returned at evening, with new roses 
in her cheeks, the little sister who had been to 
a place where there was a wood, and brought 
back for him a treasure of fallen acorns, and 
black crow's feathers, and his peace at find- 
ing her again near him mingled all night with 
some intimate sense of the distant forest, the 
rumour of its breezes, with the glossy black- 
birds aslant and the branches lifted in them, 
and of the perfect nicety of the little cups 
that fell. So those two elementary appre- 
hensions of the tenderness and of the colour 
in things grew apace in him, and were seen 

^ c.f. / John, ii : i6 



by him afterwards to send their roots back 
into the beginnings of life. 

Let me note first some of the occasions of 
his recognition of the element of pain in 
things — incidents, now and again, which 
seemed suddenly to awake in him the whole 
force of that sentiment which Goethe has 
called the Weltschmerz,^ and in which the con- 
centrated sorrow of the world seemed suddenly 
to lie heavy upon him. A book lay in an old 
book-case, of which he cared to remember one 
picture — a woman sitting, with hands bound 
behind her, the dress, the cap, the hair, folded 
with a simplicity which touched him strangely, 
as if not by her own hands, but with some 
ambiguous care at the hands of others — 
Queen Marie Antoinette, on her way to exe- 
cution — we all remember David's^ drawing, 
meant merely to m.ake her ridiculous. The 
face that had been so high had learned to be 
mute and resistless ; but out of its very resist- 
lessness, seemed now to call on men to have 
pity, and forbear ; and he took note of that, 
as he closed the book, as a thing to look at 
again, if he should at any time find himself 
tempted to be cruel. Again he would never 
quite forget the appeal in the small sister's 
face, in the garden under the lilacs, terrified at 
a spider lighted on her sleeve. He could trace 
back to the look then noted a certain mercy 
conceived always for people in fear, even 
of little things, which seemed to make him, 
though but for a moment, capable of almost 
any sacrifice of himself. Impressible, sus- 
ceptible persons, indeed, who had had their 
sorrows, lived about him ; and this sensibility 
was due in part to the tacit influence of their 
presence, enforcing upon him habitually the 
fact that there are those who pass their days, 
as a matter of course, in a sort of "going 
quietly." Most poignantly of all he could re- 
call, in unfading minutest circumstance, the 
cry on the stair, sounding bitterly through the 
house, and struck into his soul forever, of an 
aged woman, his father's sister, come now to 
announce his death in distant India; how it 
seemed to make the aged woman like a child 
again ; and, he knew not why, but this fancy 
was full of pity to him. There were the little 
sorrows of the dumb animals too — of the 
white angora, with a dark tail like an ermine's, 
and a face like a flower, who fell into a linger- 

^ world-sorrow ^ Jacques Louis David (174S- 
1825), a French historical painter 



THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE 



66i 



ing sickness, and became quite delicately hu- 
man in its valetudinarianism, and came to 
have a hundred different expressions of voice 
— how it grew worse and worse, till it began 
to feel the light too much for it, and at last, 
after one wild morning of pain, the little soul 
flickered away from the body, quite worn to 
death already, and now but feebly retaining it. 

So he wanted another pet ; and as there 
were starlings about the place, which could be 
taught to speak, one of them was caught, and 
he meant to treat it kindly ; but in the night 
its young ones could be heard crying after 
it, and the responsive cry of the mother-bird 
towards them; and at last, with the first 
light, though not tiU after some debate with 
himself, he went down and opened the cage, 
and saw a sharp bound of the prisoner up to 
her nestlings ; and therewith came the sense of 
remorse, — that he too was become an accom- 
plice in moving, to the limit of his small 
power, the springs and handler of that great 
machine in things, constructed so ingeniously 
to play pain-fugues 1 on the delicate nerve- 
work of living creatures. 

I have remarked how, in the process of our 
brain-building, as the house of thought in 
Avhich we live gets itself together, like some 
airy bird's-nest of floating thistle-down and 
chance straws, compact at last, little accidents 
have their consequence ; and thus it happened 
that, as he walked one evening, a garden gate, 
usually closed, stood open ; and lo ! within, a 
great red hawthorn in full flower, embossing 
hcavfly the bleached and twisted trunk and 
branches, so aged that there were but few 
green leaves thereon — a plumage of tender, 
crimson fire out of the heart of the dry wood. 
The perfume of the tree had now and again 
reached him, in the currents of the wind, over 
the wall, and he had wondered what might be 
behind it, and was now allowed to fill his arms 
with the flowers — flowers enough for all the 
old blue china pots along the chimney-piece, 
making fete ^ in the children's room. Was it 
some periodic moment in the expansion of soul 
within him, or mere trick of heat in the heavily- 
laden summer air? But the beauty of the 
thing struck home to him feverishly ; and in 
dreams all night he loitered along a magic 
roadway of crimson flowers, which seemed to 
open ruddily in thick, fresh masses about his 

^ elaborately interwoven compositions of pain 
^ festival 

AE 



feet, and fill softly all the little hollo vv's in the 
banks on either side. Always afterwards, 
summer by summer, as the flowers came on, 
the blossom of the red hawthorn still seemed 
to him absolutely the reddest of all things; 
and the goodly crimson, stfll alive in the works 
of old Venetian masters or old Flemish tapes- 
tries, called out always from afar the recollec- 
tion of the flame m those perishing little petals, 
as it pulsed gradually out of them, kept long 
in the drawers of an old cabinet. Also then, 
for the first time, he seemed to experience a 
passionateness in his relation to fair outward 
objects, an inexplicable excitement in their 
presence, which disturbed him, and from 
which he half longed to be free. A touch of 
regret or desire mingled all night with the 
remembered presence of the red flowers, and 
their perfume in the darkness about him ; and 
the longing for some undivined, entire posses- 
sion of them was the beginning of a revelation 
to him, growing ever clearer, with the coming 
of the gracious summer guise of fields and trees 
and persons in each succeeding year, of a cer- 
tain, at times seemingly exclusive, predomi- 
nance in his interests, of beautiful physical 
things, a kind of tyranny of the sense over 
him. 

In later years he came upon philosophies 
which occupied him much in the estimate of 
the proportion of the sensuous and the ideal 
elements in human knowledge, the relative 
parts they bear in it ; and, in his inteUectual 
scheme, was led to assign very little to the 
abstract thought, and much to its sensible 
vehicle or occasion. Such metaphysical spec- 
ulation did but reinforce what was instinctive 
in his way of receiving the world, and for him, 
everywhere, that sensible vehicle or occasion 
became, perhaps only too surely, the necessary 
concomitant of any perception of things, real 
enough to be of any weight or reckoning, in 
his house of thought. There were times when 
he could think of the necessity he was under 
of associating all thoughts to touch and sight, 
as a sympathetic link between himself and 
actual, feeling, living objects; a protest in 
favour of real men and women against mere 
gray, unreal abstractions ; and he remem- 
bered gratefully how the Christian religion, 
hardly less than the religion of the ancient 
Greeks, translating so much of its spiritual 
verity into things that may be seen, conde- 
scends in part to sanction this infirmity, if so 
it be, of our human existence, wherein the 



662 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



world of sense is so much with us, and wel- 
comed this thought as a kind of keeper and 
sentinel over his soul therein. But certainly, 
he came more and more to be unable to care 
for, or think of soul but as in an actual body, 
or of any world but that wherein are water 
and trees, and where m.en and women look, 
so or so, and press actual hands. It was the 
trick even his pity learned, fastening those 
who suffered in anywise to his affections by 
a kind of sensible attachments. He would 
think of Julian, fallen into incurable sickness, 
as spoiled in the sweet blossom of his skin like 
pale amber, and his honey-like hair ; of Cecil, 
early dead, as cut off from the lilies, from 
golden summer days, from women's voices; 
and then what comforted him a little was the 
thought of the turning of the child's flesh to 
violets in the turf above him. And thinking 
of the very poor, it was not the things which 
most men care most for that he yearned to 
give them; but fairer roses, perhaps, and 
power to taste quite as they will, at their 
ease and not task-burdened, a certain desir- 
able, clear light in the new morning, through 
which sometimes he had noticed them, quite 
unconscious of it, on their way to their early 
toil. 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
(1850-1894) 

FRANCOIS VILLON, STUDENT, POET, 
' AND HOUSEBREAKER 

Perhaps one of the most curious revolutions 
in literary history is the sudden bull's-eye light 
cast by M. Longnon on the obscure existence 
of Francois Villon. His book is not remark- 
able merely as a chapter of biography exliumed 
after four centuries. To readers of the poet it 
v/ill recall, with a flavour of satire, that char- 
acteristic passage in which he bequeaths his 
spectacles — with a. humorous reservation of 
the case — ■ to the hospital for blind paupers 
known as the Fifteen-Score. Thus equipped, 
let the blind paupers go and separate the good 
from the bad in the cemetery of the Innocents ! 
For his own part the poet can see no distinc- 
tion. Much have the dead people made of 
their advantages. What does it matter now 
that they have lain in state beds and nour- 



ished portly bodies upon cakes and cream I 
Here they ail lie, to be trodden in the mud; 
the large estate and the small, sounding virtue 
and adroit or powerful vice, in very much the 
same condition; and a bishop not to be dis- 
tinguished from a lamplighter with even the 
strongest spectacles. 

Such was Villon's cynical philosophy. 
Four hundred years after his death, when 
surely all danger might be considered at an 
end, a pair of critical spectacles have been 
applied to his own remains ; and though he 
left behind him a sufliciently ragged reputa- 
tion from the first, it is only after these four 
hundred years that his delinquencies have 
been fuaally tracked home, and we can assign 
him to his proper place among the good or 
wicked. It is a staggering thought, and one 
that affords a fine figure of the imperisha- 
bility of men's acts, that the stealth of the 
private inquiry office can be carried so far 
back into the. dead and dusty past. We are 
not so soon quit of our concerns as Villon 
fancied. In the extreme of dissolution, when 
not so much as a man's name is remembered, 
when his dust is scattered to the four winds, 
and perhaps the very grave and the very 
graveyard where he was laid to rest have 
been forgotten, desecrated, and buried under 
populous towns, — even in this extreme let 
an antiquary fall across a sheet of manu- 
script, and the name wiU be recalled, the old 
infamy wiU pop out into daylight like a toad 
out of a fissure in the rock, and the shadow 
of the shade of what was once a man will be 
heartily pilloried by his descendants. A Uttle 
while ago and Mlion was almost totally for- 
gotten ; then he was revived for the sake of 
his verses ; and now he is being revived with a 
vengeance in the detection of his misdemean- 
ours. How unsubstantial is this projection of 
a man's existence, which can lie in abeyance 
for centuries and then be brushed up again 
and set forth for the consideration of posterity 
by a few dips in an antiquary's inkpot ! 
This precarious tenure of fame goes a long 
way to justify those (and they are not few) 
who prefer cakes and cream in the immediate 
present. 

A Wild Youth 

Francois de Montcorbier, a/ias Frangois des 
Loges, alias Frangois Villon, alias Michel 
Mouton, Master of Arts in the University of 
Paris, was born in that city in the summer of 



FRAIvrgOIS VILLON 



663 



143 1. It was a memorable year for France 
on other and higher considerations. A great- 
hearted girl and a poor-hearted boy made, 
the one her last, the other his first appearance 
on the public stage of that mihappy country. 
On the 30th of May the ashes of Joan of Arc 
were thrown into the Seine, and on the 2d of 
December our Henry Sixth made his Joyous 
Entry disrnally enough into disaffected and 
depopulating Paris. Sword and fire still 
ravaged the open country. On a single April 
Saturday twelve hundred persons, besides 
children, made their escape out of the starv- 
ing capital. The hangman, as is not unin- 
teresting to note in connection with Master 
Francis, was kept hard at work in 143 1 ; on 
the last of April and on the 4th of May alone, 
sixty-two bandits swung from Paris gibbets. 
A more confused or troublous time it would 
have been diflicult to select for a start in life. 
Not even a man's nationalit}^ was certain ; for 
the people of Paris there was no such thing 
as a Frenchman. The English were the Eng- 
lish indeed, but the French were only the 
Armagnacs, whom, with Joan of Arc at their 
head, they had beaten back from under their 
ramparts not two years before. Such public 
sentiment as they had centred about their 
dear Duke of Burgundy, and the dear Duke 
had no more urgent business than to keep out 
of their neighbourhood. ... At least, and 
whether he liked it or not, our disreputable 
troubadour was tubbed and swaddled as a sub- 
ject of the English crown. 

We hear nothing of Villon's father except 
that he was poor and of mean extraction. His 
mother was given piously,^ which does not 
imply very much in an old Frenchwoman, 
and quite uneducated. He had an uncle, a 
monk in an abbey at Angers, who must have 
prospered beyond the family average, and ivas 
reported to be worth five or six hundred 
crowns. Of this uncle and his money-box 
the reader will hear once more. In 1448 
Francis became a student of the University of 
Paris ; in 1450 he took the degree of Bachelor, 
and in 1452 that of I^Iaster of Arts. His 
bourse, or the sum paid weekly for his board, 
was of the amount of two sous. Now two 
sous was about the price of a pound of salt 
butter in the bad times of 1417; it was the 
price of half-a-pound in the v/orsc times of 
1419 ; and in 1444, just four years before Vil- 



lon joined the University, it seems to have 
been taken as the average v/age for a day's 
manual labour. In short, it cannot have 
been a very profuse allowance to keep a 
sharp-set lad in breakfast and supper for 
seven mortal days ; and Villon's share of the 
cakes and pastry and general good cheer,, to 
which he is never weary of referring, must 
have been slender from the first. 

The educational arrangements of the Uni- 
versity of Paris were, to our way of thinking, 
somewhat incomplete. Worldly and monkish 
elements were presented in a curious con- 
fusion, which the youth might disentangle 
for himself. If he had an opportunity, on 
the one hand, of acquiring much hair-drawn 
divinity and a taste for formal disputation, 
he was put in the way of much gross and 
flaunting vice upon the other. The lecture 
room of a scholastic doctor was sometimes 
under the same roof with establishments of 
a very different and peculiarly miedifying 
order. The students had extraordinary priv- 
ileges, which by all accounts they abused ex- 
traordinarily. And while some condemned 
themselves to an almost sepulchral regularity 
and seclusion, others fled the schools, swag- 
gered in the street "with their thumbs in 
their girdle," passed the night in riot, and 
behaved themselves as the worthy fore- 
runners of Jehan Frollo in the romance of 
Notre Dame de Paris} Villon tells us himself 
that he was among the truants, but we hardly 
needed his avowal. The burlesque erudition 
in which he sometimes indulged implies no 
more than the merest smattering of knowl- 
edge ; whereas his acquaintance with black- 
guard haunts and industries could only have 
been acquired by early and consistent im- 
piety and idleness. He passed his degrees, 
it is true ; but some of us who have been to 
modern universities will make their own 
reflections on the value of the test. As for 
his three pupils, Colin Laurent, Girard 
Gossoujm., and Jehan Marceau — if they 
were really his pupils in any serious sense — 
what can we say but God help them! And 
sure enough, by his own description, they 
turned out as ragged, rowdy, and ignorant 
as was to be looked for from the views and 
manners of their rare preceptor. 

At some time or other, before or during his 
university career, the poet v/as adopted by 



^ of uious tendencies 



^ by \'ictor liugo 



664 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



Master Guillaume de Villon, chaplain of Saint 
Benoit-le-Betourne near the Sorbonne. From 
him he borrowed the surname by which he is 
known to posterity. It was most likely from 
Jiis house, called the Porte Ronge,^ and situated 
in a garden in the cloister of Saint Benoit, 
that Master Francis heard the bell of the Sor- 
bonne- ring out the Angelus^ while he was 
finishing his Small Testament at Christmastide 
in 1456. Toward this benefactor he usually 
gets credit for a respectable display of grati- 
tude. But with his trap and pitfall style of 
writing, it is easy to make too sure. His 
sentiments are about as much to be relied on 
as those of a professional beggar ; and in this, 
as in so many other matters, he comes toward 
us whining and piping the eye,"* and goes off 
again with a whoop and his finger to his nose. 
Thus, he calls Guillaume de Villon his "more 
than father," thanks him with a great show of 
sincerity for having helped him out of many 
scrapes, and bequeaths him his portion of 
renown. But the portion of renown which 
belonged to a young thief, distinguished (if, 
at the period when he wrote this legacy, he 
was distinguished at all) for having written 
some more or 'less obscene and scurrilous 
ballads, must have been little fitted to gratify 
the self-respect or increase the reputation of 
a benevolent ecclesiastic. The same remark 
applies to a subsequent legacy of the poet's 
library, with specification of one work which 
was plainly neither decent nor devout. We 
are thus left on the horns of a dilemma. If 
the chaplain was a godly, philanthropic per- 
sonage, who had tried to graft good principles 
and good behaviour on this wild slip of an 
adopted son, these jesting legacies would 
obviously cut him to the heart. The position 
of an adopted son toward his adoptive father 
is one full of delicacy ; where a man lends his 
name he looks for great consideration. And 
this legacy of Villon's portion of renown may 
be taken as the mere fling of an unregenerate 
scapegrace who has wit enough to recognise 
in his own shame the readiest weapon of 
offence against a prosy benefactor's feelings. 
The gratitude of Master Francis figures, on 
this reading, as a frightful minus quantity. 
If, on the other hand, those jests were given 
and taken in good humour, the whole relation 

' Red Door - a college of the Universitj' •* a 
summons to a devotional service * pretending to 
weep 



between the pair degenerates into the un- 
edifying complicity of a debauched old chap- 
lain and a witty and dissolute young scholar. 
At this rate the house with the red door may 
have rung with the most mundane minstrelsy ; 
and it may have been below its roof that 
Villon, through a hole in the plaster, studied, 
as he tells us, the leisures of a rich ecclesiastic. 

It was, perhaps, of some moment in the 
poet's life that he should have inhabited the 
cloister of Saint Benoit. Three of the most 
remarkable among his early acquaintances are 
Catherine de VauseUes, for whom he enter- 
tained a short-lived affection and an endur- 
ing and most unmanly resentment ; Regnier 
de Montigny, a young blackguard of good 
birth ; and Colin de Cayeux, a fellow with a 
marked aptitude for picking locks. Now we 
are on a foundation of mere conjecture, but 
it is at least curious to find that two of the 
canons of Saint Benoit answered respectively 
to the names of Pierre de Vaucel and Etienne 
de Montigny, and that there was a householder 
called Nicolas de Cayeux in a street — the 
Rue des Poirees — in the immediate neigh- 
bourhood of the cloister. M. Longnon is 
almost ready to identify Catherine as the 
niece of Pierre; Regnier as the nephew of 
Etienne, and Colin as the son of Nicolas. 
Without going so far, it must be owned that 
the approximation of names is significant. As 
Ave go on to see the part played by each of 
these persons in the sordid melodrama of the 
poet's life, we shall come to regard it as even 
more notable. Is it not Clough who has re- 
marked that, after all, everything lies in jux- 
taposition ? 1 Many a man's destiny has been 
settled by nothing apparently more grave than 
a pretty face on the opposite side of the street 
and a couple of bad companions round the 
corner. 

Catherine de VauseUes (or de Vaucel — the 
change is within the limits of Villon's license) 
had plainly delighted in the poet's conversa- 
tion ; near neighbours or not, they were much 
together ; and Villon made no secret of his 
court, and suffered himself to believe that his 
feeling was repaid in kind. This may have 
been an error from the first, or he may have 
estranged her by subsequent misconduct or 
temerity. One can easily imagine Villon an 
impatient wooer. One thing, at least, is sure : 
that the affair terminated in a manner bitterly 

^ cf. his Amours de Voyage 



FRANgOIS VILLON 



665 



humiliating to Master Francis. In presence 
of his lady-love, perhaps under her window 
and certainly with her connivance, he was un- 
mercifully thrashed by one Noe le Joly — ■ 
beaten, as he says himself, like dirty linen on 
the washing-board. It is characteristic that 
his malice had notably increased between the 
time when he wrote the Small Teslameni im- 
mediately on the back of the occurrence, and 
the time when he wrote the Large Testament 
five years after. On the latter occasion noth- 
ing is too bad for his " damsel with the twisted 
nose," as he calls her. She is spared neither 
hint nor accusation, and he tells his messenger 
to accost her with the vilest insults. Villon, 
it is thought, was out of Paris when these 
amenities escaped his pen ; or perhaps the 
strong arm of Noe le Joly would have been 
again in requisition. So ends the love story, 
if love story it may properly be called. Poets 
are not necessarily fortunate in love ; but they 
usually fall among more romantic circum- 
stances and bear their disappointment with a 
better grace. 

The neighbourhood of Regnier de Montigny 
and Colin de Cayeux was probably more in- 
fluential on his after life than the contempt of 
Catherine. For a man who is greedy of all 
pleasures, and provided with little money and 
less dignity of character, we may prophesy a 
safe and speedy voyage downward. Humble 
or even truckling virtue may walk unspotted 
in this life. But only those who despise the 
pleasures can afford to despise the opinion of 
the world. A man of a strong, heady tem- 
perament, like ViUon, is very differently 
tempted. His eyes lay hold on all provoca- 
tions greedily, and his heart flames up at a 
look into imperious desire ; he is snared and 
broached to by anything and everything, from 
a pretty face to a piece of pastry in a cook- 
shop window ; he will drink the rinsing of the 
wine cup, stay the latest at the tavern party ; 
tap at the lit windows, follow the sound of 
singing, and beat the whole neighbourhood for 
another reveller, as he goes reluctantly home- 
ward : and grudge himself every hour of sleep 
as a black empty period in which he cannot 
follow after pleasure. Such a person is lost 
if he have not dignity, or, failing that, at least 
pride, which is its shadow and in many ways 
its substitute. Master Francis, I fancy, would 
follow his own eager instincts without much 
spiritual struggle. And we soon find him 
fallen among thieves in sober, literal earnest, 



and counting as acquaintances the most dis- 
reputable people he could lay his hands on : 
fellows who stole ducks in Paris Moat ; ser- 
geants of the criminal court, and archers of 
the watch ; blackguards who slept at night 
under the butchers' stalls, and for whom the 
aforesaid archers peered about carefully with 
lanterns; Regnier de Montigny, Colin de 
Cayeux, and their crew, all bound on a favour- 
ing breeze toward the gallows ; the disorderly 
abbess of Port Royal, who went about at fair 
time with soldiers and thieves, and conducted 
her abbey on the queerest principles; and 
most likely Perette Mauger, the great Paris 
receiver of stolen goods, not yet dreaming, 
poor woman ! of the last scene of her career 
when Henry Cousin, executor of the high 
justice, shall bury her, alive and most reluc- 
tant, in front of the new Montigny gibbet. 
Nay, our friend soon began to take a foremost 
rank in this society. He could string off 
verses, which is always an agreeable talent ; 
and he could make himself useful in many 
other ways. The whole ragged army of Bo- 
hemia, and whosoever loved good cheer with- 
out at all loving to work and pay for it, are 
addressed in contemporary verses as the " Sub- 
jects of Frangois Villon." He was a good 
genius to all hungry and unscrupulous persons; 
and became the hero of a whole legendary 
cycle of tavern tricks and cheateries. At 
best, these were doubtful levities, rather too 
thievish for a schoolboy, rather too gamesome 
for a thief. But he would not linger long in 
this equivocal border land. He must soon 
have complied with his surroundings. He 
was one v/ho would go where the cannikin 
clinked, not caring who should pay ; and from 
supping in the wolves' den, there is but a step 
to hunting with the pack. And here, as I am 
on the chapter of his degradation, I shall say 
all I mean to say about its darkest expression, 
and be done with it for good. Some charit- 
able critics see no more than ajcic d' esprit, a 
graceful and trifling exercise of the imagina- 
tion, in the grimy ballad of Fat Peg {Grosse 
Mar got). I am not able to follow these gentle- 
men to this polite extreme. Out of all \'illon's 
works that ballad stands forth in flaring 
reality, gross and ghastly, as a thing written 
in a contraction of disgust. IM. Longnon 
shows us more and more clearly at every page 
that we are to read our poet literally, that his 
names are the names of real persons, and the 
events he chronicles were actual events. But 



666 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



even if the tendency of criticism had rvm the 
other way, this ballad would have gone far 
to prove itself. I can well understand the 
reluctance of worthy persons in this matter; 
for of course it is unpleasant to think of a man 
of genius as one who held, in the words of 
Marina to Boult — 

"A place, for which the pained'st fiend 
Of hell would not in reputation change." ^ 

But beyond this natural unwillingness, the 
whole difficulty of the case springs from a 
highly virtuous ignorance of life. Paris now 
is not so different from the Paris of then; 
and the whole of the doings of Bohemia are 
not written in the sugar-candy pastorals of 
Murger.2 xt is really not at all surprising that 
a young man of the fifteenth century, with a 
knack of making verses, should accept his 
bread upon disgraceful terms. The race of 
those who do is not extinct ; and some of them 
to this day write the prettiest verses imagi- 
nable. . . . After this, it were impossible for 
Master Francis to fall lower : to go and steal 
for himself would be an admirable advance 
from every point of view, divine or human. 

And yet it is not as a thief, but as a homi- 
cide, that he makes his first appearance before 
angry justice. On June 5, 1455, when he was 
about twenty-four, and had been Master of 
Arts for a matter of three years, we behold 
him for the first time quite definitely. Angry 
justice had, as it were, photographed him in 
the act of his homicide; and M. Longnon, 
rummaging among old deeds, has turned up 
the negative and printed it off for om- instruc- 
tion. Villon had been supping — copiously 
vv^e may believe — and sat on a stone bench 
in front of the Church of Saint Benoit, in 
company with a priest called Gilles and a 
woman of the name of Isabeau. It was nine 
o'clock, a mighty late hour for the period, and 
evidently a fine summer's night. Master 
Francis carried a mantle, like a prudent man, 
to keep him from the dews (scrain) , and had a 
sword below it dangling from his girdle. So 
these three dallied in front of St. Benoit, tak- 
ing their pleasure {pour soy esbatre). Sud- 
denly there arrived upon the scene a priest, 
Philippe Chermoye or Sermaise, also with 
sword and cloak, and accompanied by one 

^ Pericles, IV, vi, 173-4 ^ Henri Murger (1822- 
1861), who celebrated the Bohemian life of Paris 
in Scenes de la vie de Bohcme 



Master Jehan le Mardi. Sermaise, according 
to Villon's account, which is all we have to 
go upon, came up blustering and denying 
God ; as Villon rose to make room for him 
upon the bench, thrust him rudely back into 
his place ; and finally drew his sword and 
cut open his lower lip, by what I should 
imagme was a very clumsy stroke. Up to 
this point, Villon professes to have been a 
model of courtesy, even of feebleness ; and 
the brawl, in his version, reads lilce the fable 
of the wolf and the lamb. But now the 
lamb was roused ; he drew his sword, stabbed 
Sermaise in the groin, knocked him on the 
head with a big stone, and then, leaving him 
to his fate, went awa)^ to have his own lip 
doctored by a barber "■ of the name of Fouquet. 
In one version, he says that Gilles, Isabeau, 
and Le Mardi ran away at the first high 
words, and that he and Sermaise had it out 
alone ; in another, Le Mardi is represented 
as returning and wresting Villon's sword from 
him : the reader may please himself. Ser- 
maise was picked up, lay all that night in the 
prison of Saint Benoit, where he was examined 
by an official of the Chatelet ^ and expressly 
pardoned Villon, and died on the following 
Saturday in the Hotel Dieu.^ 

This, as I have said, was in June. Not 
before January of the next year could Villon 
extract a pardon from the king ; but while his 
hand was in, he 'got two. One is for "Fran- 
cois des Loges, alias {autermejit dit) de ViUon" ; 
and the other runs in the name of Frangcis 
de Montcorbier. Nay, it appears there was a 
further complication ; for in the narrative of 
the first of these documents, it is mentioned 
that he passed himself oQ. upon Fouquet, the 
barber-surgeon, as one Michel Mouton. M. 
Longnon has a theory that this unhappy acci- 
dent with Sermaise was the cause of Villon's 
subsequent irregularities ; and that up to that 
moment he had been the pink of good be- 
haviour. But the matter has to my eyes a 
more dubious air. A pardon necessary for 
Des Loges and another for Montcorbier? and 
these two the same person ? and one or both 
of them known by the alias of Villon, how- 
ever honestly come by ? and lastly, in the heat 
of the moment, a fourth name thrown out 
with an assured countenance? A ship is not 
to be trusted that sails under so many colours. 

^ In those days barbers were surgeons for minor 
operations. ^ the city prison * a hospital 



FRANgOIS VILLON 



667 



This is not the simple bearing of innocence. 
No — the young master was already treading 
crooked paths ; ahead}', he would start and 
blench at a hand upon his shoulder, with the 
look we know so well m the face of Hogarth's 
Idle Apprentice ; ^ already, in the blue devils,^ 
he would see Henry Cousin, the executor of 
high justice, going in dolorous procession 
toward Montfaucon, and hear the wind and 
the birds crying around Paris gibbet. 

A Gang of Thieves 

In spite of the prodigious number of people 
who managed to get hanged, the fifteenth 
century was by no means a bad time for crim- 
inals. A great confusion of parties and great 
dust of lighting favoured the escape of private 
housebreakers and quiet fellows who stole 
ducks in Paris Moat. Prisons were leaky; 
and as we shall see, a man with a few crowns 
in his pocket and perhaps some acquaintance 
among the officials, could easily slip out and 
become once more a free marauder. There 
was no want of a sanctuary where he might 
harbour until troubles blew by; and accom- 
plices helped each other with more or less 
good faith. Clerks,^ above all, had remark- 
able facilities for a criminal way of life ; for 
they were privileged, except in cases of noto- 
rious incorrigibility, to be plucked from the 
hands of rude secular justice and tried by a 
tribunal of their own. In 1402, a couple of 
thieves, both clerks of the University, were 
condemned to death by the Provost of Paris. 
As they were taken to IMontfaucon, they kept 
crying "high and clearly" for their benefit of 
clergy,'' but were none the less pitilessly hanged 
and gibbeted. Indignant Alma Mater inter- 
fered before the king; and the Provost was 
deprived of all royal offices, and condemned 
to return the bodies and erect a great stone 
cross, on the road from Paris to the gibbet, 
graven with the efiigies of these two holy 
martyrs. We shall hear more of the benefit 
of clergy ; for after this the reader will not 
be surprised to meet with thieves in the shape 
of tonsured clerks, or even priests and monks. 

' The Industrious and the Idle Apprentice are 
shown in a series of pictures by William Hogarth 
(1697-1764), a great English caricaturist and 
satirist, -when in low spirits 'men of education 
* the right of demanding a trial before an ecclesi- 
astical court instead of a secular court 



To a knot of such learned pilferers our poet 
certainly belonged ; and by turning over a 
few more of M. Longnon's negatives, we shall 
get a clear idea of their character and doings. 
Montigny and De Cayeux are names already 
known ; Guy Tabary, Petit-Jehan, Dom Nico- 
las, little Thibault, who was both clerk and 
goldsmith, and who made picklocks and 
melted plate for himself and his companions 
— with these the reader has still to become 
acquainted. Petit-Jehan^ and De Cayeux 
were handy fellows and enjoyed a useful pre- 
eminence in honour of their doings with the 
picldock. "Dictus des Cahyeus est for lis 
operator crochetorum," says Tabary's inter- 
rogation, "sed dictus Petit-Jehan, ejus socius, 
est Jorcius operator."'^ But the flower of the 
flock was little Thibault ; it was reported 
that no lock could stand before him ; he had 
a persuasive hand ; let us salute capacity 
wherever we may find it. Perhaps the term 
gang is not quite properly applied to the per- 
sons whose fortunes we are now about to 
follow ; rather they were independent male- 
factors, socially intimate, and occasionally 
joining together for some serious operation, 
just as modern stock jobbers form a syndicate 
for an important loan. Nor were they at all 
particular to any branch of misdoing. They 
did not scrupulously confine themselves to a 
single sort of theft, as I hear is common 
among modern thieves. They were ready 
for anytliing, from pitch-and-toss ' to man- 
slaughter. Montingy, for instance, had neg- 
lected neither of these extremes, and we find 
him accused of cheating at games of hazard * 
on the one hand, and on the other of the 
miuder of one Thevenin Pensete in a house by 
the Cemeter}'- of St. John. If time had only 
spared us some particulars, might not this 
last have furnished us with the matter of a 
grisly winter's tale? 

At Christmas-time in 1456, readers of Villon 
will remember that he was engaged on the 
Small Testament.^ About the same period, 
circa fesfum nativitatis Domini,^ he took part 
in a memorable supper at the Mule Tavern, 
in front of " the Church of St. Mathurm. 

^ Little- John ^ The said des Cahyeus is a 
great artist with picklocks, but the said Petit- 
Jehan, his 'pal,' is a greater, 'a game like 
matching pennies ^ craps ^ The ' testament,' 
or ' will.' was a popular form of literary com- 
position ® about Christmas 



668 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



Tabary, who seems to have been very much 
Villon's creature, had ordered the supper in 
the course of the afternoon. He was a man 
who had had troubles in his time and lan- 
guished in the Bishop of Paris 's prisons on a 
suspicion of picking locks; confiding, con- 
vivial, not very astute — who had copied out 
a whole improper romance with his own right 
hand. This supper-party was to be his first 
introduction to De Cayeux and Petit-Jehan, 
which was probably a matter of some concern 
to the poor man's muddy wits ; in the sequel, 
at least, he speaks of both with an undisguised 
respect, based on professional inferiority in the 
m.atter of picklocks. Dom Nicolas, a Picardy 
monk, was the fifth and last at table. When 
supper had been despatched and fairly washed 
down, we may suppose, with white Baigneux 
or red Beaune, which were favourite wines 
among the fellowship, Tabary was solemnly 
sworn over to secrecy on the night's perform- 
ances ; and the party left the Mule and pro- 
ceeded to an imoccupied house belonging to 
Robert de Saint-Simon. This, over a low 
wall, they entered without difiiculty. All but 
Tabary took off their upper garments; a 
ladder was found and applied to the high 
wail which separated Saint-Simon's house 
from the court of the College of Navarre; 
the four fellows in their shirt sleeves (as we 
might say) clambered over in a twinkling; 
and Master Guy Tabary remained alone be- 
side the overcoats. From the court the bur- 
glars made their way into the vestry of the 
chapel, where they found a large chest, 
strengthened with iron bands and closed with 
four locks. One of these locks they picked, 
and then, by levering up the corner, forced 
the other three. Inside was a small coffer, of 
walnut wood, also barred with iron, but 
fastened with only three locks, which were all 
comfortably picked by way of the keyhole. 
In the walnut coffer — a joyous sight by our 
thieves' lantern — were five hundred crowns 
of gold. There was some talk of opening the 
aumries,^ where, if they had only known, a 
booty eight or nine times greater lay ready 
to their hand ; but one of the party (I have a 
humorous suspicion it was Dom Nicolas, the 
Picardy monk) hurried them away. It was 
ten o'clock when they mounted the ladder ; 
it was about midnight before Tabary beheld 
them coming back. To him they gave ten 



crowns, and promised a share of a two-crown 
dinner on the morrow ; whereat we may sup- 
pose his mouth watered. In course of time, 
he got wind of the real amount of their booty 
and understood how scurvily he had been 
used ; but he seems to have borne no malice. 
How could he, against such superb operators 
as Petit-Jehan and De Cayeux; or a person 
like Villon, who could have made a new im- 
proper romance out of his own head, instead 
of merely copying an old one with mechanical 
right hand? 

The rest of the winter was not uneventful 
for the gang. First they made a demonstra- 
tion against the Church of St. Mathurin 
after chalices,^ and were ignominiously chased 
away by barking dogs. Then Tabary fell out 
with Casin ChoUet, one of the fellows who 
stole ducks in Paris Moat, who subsequently 
became a sergeant of the Chatelet and dis- 
tinguished himself by misconduct, followed by 
imprisonment and public castigation, during 
the wars of Louis Eleventh. The quarrel was 
not conducted with a proper regard to the 
king's peace, and the pair publicly belaboured 
each other until the police stepped in, and 
Master Tabary was cast once more into the 
prisons of the Bishop. While he still lay in 
durance, another job was cleverly executed 
by the band in broad daylight, at the Augus- 
tine Monastery. Brother Guillaume Coiflier 
was beguiled by an accomplice to St. Mathurin 
to say mass ; and during his absence, his 
cham^ber was entered and five or six hundred 
crowns in money and some silver plate suc- 
cessfully abstracted. A melancholy man was 
Coiffier on his return ! Eight crowns from 
this adventure were forwarded by little Thi- 
bault to the incarcerated Tabary; and with 
these he bribed the jailer and reappeared in 
Paris taverns. Some time before or shortly 
after this, Villon set out for Angers, as he had 
promised in the Small Testament. The object 
of this excursion was not merely to avoid the 
presence of his cruel mistress or the strong 
arm of Noe le Joly, but to plan a deliberate 
robbery on his uncle the monk. As soon as 
he had properly studied the ground, the others 
were to go over in force from Paris — pick- 
locks and all — and away with my uncle's 
strongbox ! This throws a comical sidelight 
on his own accusation against his relatives, 
that they had "forgotten natural duty" and 



closets 



^ cups used for sacramental wine 



FRANgOIS VILLON 



669 



disowned him because he was poor. A poor 
relation is a distasteful circumstance at the 
best, but a poor relation who plans deliberate 
robberies against those of his blood, and 
trudges hundreds of weary leagues to put 
them into execution, is surely a little on the 
wrong side of toleration. The uncle at Angers 
may have been monstrously undutiful ; but 
the nephew from Paris was upsides with him. 
On the 23d April, that venerable and dis- 
creet person. Master Pierre Marchand, Curate 
and Prior of Paray-le-Monial, in the diocese 
of Chartres, arrived in Paris and put up at the 
sign of the Three Chandeliers, in the Rue de la 
Huchette. Next day, or the day after, as he 
was breakfasting at the sign of the Arm-chair, 
he fell into talk with two customers, one of 
whom was a priest and the other our friend 
Tabary. The idiotic Tabary became mighty 
confidential as to his past life. Pierre Mar- 
chand, who was an acquaintance of Guillaume 
Coiffier's and had sympathised with him over 
his loss, pricked up his ears at the mention of 
picklocks, and led on the transcriber of im- 
proper romances from one thing to another, 
imtil they were fast friends. For picklocks 
the Prior of Paray professed a keen curiosity ; 
but Tabary, upon some late alarm, had thrown 
all his into the Seine. Let that be no diffi- 
culty, however, for was there not little Thi- 
bault, who could make them of all shapes and 
sizes, and to whom Tabary, smelling an accom- 
plice, would be only too glad to introduce his 
new acquaintance? On the morrow, accord- 
ingly, they met ; and Tabary, after having 
first wet his whistle at the Prior's expense, 
led him to Notre Dame ^ and presented him to 
four or five "young companions," who were 
keeping sanctuary - in the church. They were 
all clerks, recently escaped, like Tabary him- 
self, from the episcopal prisons. Among 
these we may notice Thibaiilt, the operator,' 
a little fellow of twenty-six, wearing long hair 
behind. The Prior expressed, through Ta- 
bary, his anxiety to become their accomplice 
and altogether such as they were {de lew sorte 
el de leiirs complices). Mighty polite they 
showed themselves, and made him many fine 
speeches in return. But for all that, perhaps 
because they had longer heads than Tabary, 
perhaps because it is less easy to wheedle men 
in a body, they kept obstinately to generali- 

^ the cathedral - staying in the church, where 
they could not be arrested 



ties and gave him no information as to their 
exploits, past, present, or to come. I sup- 
pose Tabary groaned under this reserve ; for 
no sooner were he and the Prior out of the 
church than he fairly emptied his heart to him, 
gave him full details of many hanging matters 
in the past, and explained the future intentions 
of the band. The scheme of the hour was to 
rob another Augustine monk, Robert de la 
Porte, and in this the Prior agreed to take a 
hand, with simulated greed. Thus, in the 
course of two days, he had turned this wine- 
skin of a Tabary inside out. For a while 
longer the farce was carried on ; the Prior 
was introduced to Petit-Jehan, whom he 
describes as a little, very smart man of thirty, 
with a black beard and a short jacket ; an 
appointment was made and broken in the de 
la Porte affair ; Tabary had some breakfast 
at the Prior's charge and leaked out more 
secrets under the influence of wine and friend- 
ship ; and then all of a sudden, on the 17th of 
May, an alarm sprang up, the Prior picked 
up his skirts and walked quietly over to the 
Chatelet to make a deposition, and the whole 
band took to their heels and vanished out of 
Paris and the sight of the police. 

Vanish as they like, they all go with a clog 
about their feet. Sooner or later, here or 
there, they will be caught in the fact, and igno- 
miniously sent home. From our vantage of 
four centuries afterward, it is odd and pitiful 
to watch the order in which the fugitives are 
captured and dragged in. 

Montigny was the first. In August of that 
same year, he was laid by the heels on many 
grievous counts ; sacrilegious robberies, frauds, 
incorrigibility, and that bad business about 
Thevenin Pensete in the house by the Ceme- 
tery of St. John. He was reclaimed by the 
ecclesiastical authorities as a clerk ; but the 
claim was rebutted on the score of incorrigi- 
bility, and ultimately fell to the ground ; and 
he was condemned to death by the Provost of 
Paris. It was a very rude hour for JMontigny, 
but hope was not yet over. He was a fellow 
of some birth ; his father had been king's pant- 
ler ; ^ his sister, probably married to some one 
about the Court, was in the family way, and 
her health would be endangered if the execution 
was proceeded with. So down comes Charles 
the Seventh with letters of merc}^ commuting 
the penalty to a year in a dungeon on bread 

^ in charge of the pantry 



670 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



and water, and a pilgrimage to the shrine of 
St. James in Galicia. Alas ! the document 
was incomplete ; it did not contain the full 
tale of Montigny 's enormities ; it did not recite 
that he had been denied benefit of clergy, and 
it said nothing about Thevenin Pensete. 
Montigny's hour was at hand. Benefit of 
clergy, honourable descent from king's pant- 
ler, sister in the family wa3% royal letters of 
commutation — all were of no avail. He had 
been in prison in Rouen, in Tours, in Bordeaux, 
and four times already in Paris ; and out of 
all these he had come scathless ; but now he 
must make a little excursion as far as Mont- 
faucon with Henry Cousin, executor of high 
justice. There let him swing among the 
carrion crows. 

About a year later, in July, 1458, the police 
laid hands on Tabary. Before the ecclesias- 
tical commissary he w^as twice examined, and, 
on the latter occasion, put to the question^ 
ordinary and extraordinary. What a dismal 
change from pleasant suppers at the Mule, 
where he sat in triumph with expert operators 
and great wits ! He is at the lees of life, poor 
rogue ; . and those fingers which once tran- 
scribed improper romances are now agonis- 
ingly stretched upon the rack. We have no 
sure knowledge, but we may have a shrewd 
guess of the conclusion. Tabary, the admirer, 
would go the same way as those whom he 
admired. 

The last we hear of is Colin de Cayeux. 
He was caught in avitumn 1460, in the great 
Church of St. Leu d'Esserens, which makes so 
fine a figure in the pleasant Oise valley be- 
tween Creil and Beaumont. He was re- 
claimed by no less than two bishops ; but 
the Procureur^ for the Provost held fast by 
incorrigible Colin. 1460 was an ill-starred 
year : for justice was making a clean sweep 
of "poor and indigent persons, thieves, cheats, 
and lockpickers," in the neighbourhood of 
Paris ; and Colin de Cayeux, with many 
others, was condemned to death and hanged. 

Villon and the Gallows 

Villon was still absent on the Angers expedi- 
tion when the Prior of Paray sent such a 
bombshell among his accomplices ; and the 
dates of his return and arrest remain undis- 
coverable. M. Campaux plausibly enough 

^ put through * the third degree ' ^ deputy 



opined for the autumn of 1457, which would 
make him closely follow on Montigny, and 
the first of those denounced by the Prior to 
fall into the toils. We may suppose, at least, 
that it was not long thereafter ; we may sup- 
pose him competed for between lay and 
clerical Courts ; and we may suppose him 
alternately pert and impudent, humble and 
fawning, in his defence. But at the end of 
all supposing, we come upon some nuggets 
of fact. For first, he was put to the question 
by Avater.^ He who had tossed off so many 
cups of white Baigneux or red Beaune, now 
drank water through linen folds, until his 
bowels were flooded and his heart stood still. 
After so much raising of the elbow, so much 
outcry of fictitious thirst, here at last was 
enough drinking for a lifetime. Truly, of our 
pleasant vices, the gods make whips to scourge 
us. 2 And secondly he was condemned to be 
hanged. A man may have been expecting a 
catastrophe for years, and yet find himself un- 
prepared when it arrives. Certainly, Villon 
found, in this legitimate issue of his career, 
a very staggering and grave consideration. 
Every beast, as he says, clings bitterly to a 
whole skin. If everything is lost, and even 
honour, life still remains ; nay, and it becomes, 
like the ewe lamb in Nathan's parable,^' as dear 
as all the rest. "Do you fancy," he asks, in 
a lively ballad, "that I had not enough plii- 
losophy under my hood to cry out : ' I ap- 
peal ' ? If I had made any bones about the 
matter, I should have been planted upright 
in the fields, by the St. Denis Road" — 
Montfaucon being on the way to St. Denis. 
An appeal to Parliament, as we saw in the 
case of Colin de Cayeux, did not necessarily 
lead to an acquittal or a commutation ; and 
vv^hile the matter was pending, our poet had 
ample opportunity to reflect on his position. 
"Hanging is a sharp argument, and to swing 
with many others on the gibbet adds a horrible 
corollary for the imagination. With the as- 
pect of Montfaucon he was well acquainted ; 
indeed, as the neighbourhood appears to have 
been sacred to junketing and nocturnal pic- 
nics of wild young men and women, he had 
probably studied it under all varieties of hour 
and weather. And now, as he lay in prison 
waiting the mortal push, these different as- 
pects crowded back on his imagination with a 

^recently called 'the water-cure' - cf. King 
Lear, V, ill, 170-1 ^11 Samuel, xii : 3 



FRANgOIS VILLON 



671 



new and startling significance ; and he wrote 
a ballad, by way of epitaph for himself and 
his companions, which remains unique in the 
annals of mankind. It is, in the highest 
sense, a piece of his biography : — 

La pluj'e nous a debuez et lavez,^ 
Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz ; 
Pies, corbeaidx, nous ont les yeux cavez, 
Et arrachez la barbe et les sourcilz. 
Jamais, nul temps, nous ne sommes rassis ; 
Puis fa, puis la, comma le vent varie, 
■ A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie, 
Plus becquetez d'oiseauk que dez a eouldre. 
Ne soyez done de nostre confrairie, 
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre. 

Here is some genuine tliieves' literature 
after so much that was spurious ; sharp as an 
etching, written Avith a shuddering soul. 
There is an intensity of consideration in the 
piece that shows it to be the transcript of 
familiar thoughts. It is the quintessence of 
many a doleful nightmare on the straw, when 
he felt himself swing helpless in the wind, and 
saw the birds turn about him, screaming and 
menacing his ej'es. 

And, after all, the Parliament changed his 
sentence into one of banishment ; and to 
Roussillon, in Dauphiny, our poet must carry 
his woes without delay. Travellers between 
Lyons and INIarseilles may remember a station 
on the line, some way below Vienne, where 
the Rhone fleets seaward between vine-clad 
hills. This was Villon's Siberia. It would 
be a little warm in summer perhaps, and a 
little cold in winter in that draughty valley 
between two great mountain fields ; but what 
with the hills, and the racing river, and the 
fiery Rhone wines, he was little to be pitied on 

^ The rain hath scoured us and washed us 

clean. 
And the sun hath blackened and scorched us 

dry; 
Magpies and crows at our eyes have been 
And have plucked out our beards and the 

brows from the eye ; 
Never — no moment — at rest we lie, 
But sway and swing as the wind dotli blow, 
Unceasingly driven at his will to and fro ; 
No thimble so pecked as each bird-pecked 

face. 
Be not of our brotherhood, ye. below. 
But pray God pardon us all, of his grace ! 



the conditions of his exile. Villon, in a re- 
markably bad ballad, written in a breath, 
heartily thanked and fulsomely belauded the 
Parliament ; the envoi,'- like the proverbial 
postscript of a lady's letter, containing the 
pith of his performance in a request for three 
days' delay to settle his affairs and bid his 
friends farewell. He was probably not fol- 
lowed out of Paris, like Antoine Fradm, the 
popular preacher, another exile of a few years 
later, by weeping multitudes ; but I dare 
say one or two rogues of his acquaintance 
would keep him company for a mile or so on the 
south road, and drink a bottle with him be- 
fore they turned. For banished people, in 
those days, seem to have set out on their own 
responsibility, in their own guard, and at 
their own expense. It was no joke to make 
one's way from Paris to Roussillon alone and 
penniless in the fifteenth century. Villon 
says he left a rag of his tails on every bush. 
Indeed, he must have had many a weary 
tramp, many a slender meal, and many a 
to-do with blustering captains of the Ordon- 
nance. But with one of liis light fingers, we 
may fancy that he took as good as he gave ; 
for every rag of his tail, he would manage to 
indemnify himself upon the population in the 
shape of food, or wine, or ringing money ; and 
his route v/ould be traceable across France 
and Burgundy by housewives and inn-keepers 
lamenting over petty thefts, like the track of a 
single human locust. A strange figure he 
must have cut in the eyes of the good country 
people : this ragged, blackguard city poet, 
with a smack of the Paris student, and a 
smack of the Paris street arab, posting along 
the highways, in rain or sun, among the green 
fields and vineyards." For himself, he had no 
taste for rural loveliness ; green fields and 
vineyards would be mighty indifferent to Mas- 
ter Francis ; but he would often have his 
tongue in his cheek at the simplicity of rustic 
dupes, and often, at city gates, he might stop 
to contemplate the gibbet with its swingmg 
bodies, and hug himself on his escape. 

How long he stayed at Roussillon, how far he 
became the protege of the Bourbons, to whom 

^ the short stanza (usually of four lines) ending 
a ballade and containing a direct address to the 
person for whom it was written ; see Chaucer's 
ballades or Rossetti's translation from \'illon 
2 More sombre but perhaps not less tmieful than 
Autolycus. 



672 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



that town belonged, or when it was that he 
took part, under the auspices of Charles of 
Orleans,^ in a rhyming tournament to be re- 
ferred to once again in the pages of the present 
volume, are matters that still remain in dark- 
ness, in spite of M. Longnon's diligent rum- 
maging among archives. When we next find 
him, in summer 146 1, alas! he is once more in 
durance : this time at Meun-sur-Loire, in the 
prisons of Thibault d'Aussigny, Bishop of 
Orleans. He had been lowered in a basket 
into a noisome pit, where he lay, all summer, 
gnawing hard crusts and railing upon fate. 
His teeth, he says, were like the teeth of a 
rake : a touch of haggard portraiture all the 
more real for being excessive and burlesque, 
and all the more proper to the man for being a 
caricature of his own misery. His eyes were 
"bandaged with thick walls." It might blow 
hurricanes overhead ; the lightning might leap 
in high heaven ; but no word of all this 
reached him in his noisome pit. "II n'entre, 
ou gist, n'escler ni tourbillon." ^ Above all, he 
was fevered with envy and anger at the free- 
dom of others ; and his heart flowed over into 
curses as he thought of Thibault d'Aussigny, 
walking the streets in God's simlight, and bless- 
ing people with extended fingers. So much 
we find sharply lined in his own poems. Why 
he was cast again into prison — how he had 
again managed to shave the gallows — this 
we know not, nor, from the destruction of 
authorities, are we ever likely to learn. But 
on October 2d, 1461, or some day immediately 
preceding, the new King, Louis Eleventh, 
made his joyous entry into Meun. Now it 
was a part of the formality on such occasions 
for the new King to liberate certain prisoners ; 
and so the basket was let down into' Villon's 
pit, and hastily did Master Francis scramble 
in, and was most joyfully hauled up, and shot 
out, blinking and tottering, but once more a 
free man, into the blessed sun and wind. Now 
or never is the time for verses ! Such a happy 
revolution would turn the head of a stocking- 
weaver, and set him jingling rhymes. And 
so — - after a voyage to Paris, where he finds 
Montigny and De Cayeux clattering their 
bones upon the gibbet, and his three pupils 
roystering in Paris streets, "with their thumbs 

^ a prince and poet who had been a prisoner 
in England from 1415 to 1440; Stevenson has 
an essay on him ^ There enters not, where he 
lies, lightning-flash nor whirlwind. 



under their girdles," — down sits Master 
Francis to write his Large Testament, and 
perpetuate his name in a sort of glorious 
ignominy. 

The Large Testament 

Of this capital achievement and, with it, 
of Villon's style in general, it is here the place 
to • speak. The Large Testament is a hurly- 
burly of cynical and sentimental reflections 
about life, jesting legacies to friends and en- 
emies, and, interspersed among these many 
admirable ballades, both serious and absurd. 
With so free a design, no thought that occurred 
to him would need to be dismissed without 
expression ; and he could draw at full length 
the portrait of his own bedevilled soul, and of 
the bleak and blackguardly world which was 
the theatre of his exploits and sufferings. . 
If the reader can conceive something between 
the slap-dash inconsequence of Byron's Don 
Juan and the racy humorous gravity and 
brief noble touches that distinguish the ver- 
nacular poems of Burns, he will have formed 
some idea of Villon's style. To the latter 
writer — ■ except in the ballades, which are 
quite his own, and can be paralleled from no 
other language known to me — he bears a 
particular resemblance. In common with 
Burns, he has a certain rugged compression, 
a brutal vivacity of epithet, a homely vigour, 
a delight in local personalities, and an interest 
in many sides of life, that are often despised 
and passed over by more effete and cultured 
poets. Both also, in their strong, easy, 
colloquial way, tend to become difficult and 
obscure ; the obscurity in the case of Villon 
passing at times into the absolute darkness of 
cant language. They are perhaps the only 
two great masters of expression who keep 
sending their readers to a glossary. 

"Shall we not dare to say of a thief," asks 
Montaigne,^ "that he has a handsome leg"? 
It is a far more serious claim that we have to 
, put forward in behalf of Villon. Beside that 
of his contemporaries, his writing, so full of 
colour, so eloquent, so picturesque, stands out 
in an almost miraculous isolation. If only 
one or two of the chroniclers could have taken 
a leaf out of his book, historj^ would have 
been a pastime, and the fifteenth century as 
present to our minds as the age of Charles 

^ a delightful French essayist (1533-1592) 



FRANgOIS VILLON 



673 



Second. This gallows-bird was the one great 
writer of his age and country, and initiated 
modern literature for France. Boileau/ long 
ago, in the period of perukes and snuff-boxes, 
recognised him as the first articulate poet in 
the language ; and if we measure him, not by 
priority of merit, but living duration of influ- 
ence, not on a comparison with obscure fore- 
runners, but with great and famous succes- 
sors, we shall install this ragged and disrepu- 
table figure in a far higher niche in glory's 
temple than was ever dreamed of by the critic. 
It is, in itself, a memorable fact that, before 
1542, in the very dawn of printing, and while 
modern France was in the making, the works 
of Villon ran through seven different edi- 
tions. Out of him flows much of Rabelais ;^ 
and through Rabelais, directly and indirectly, 
a deep, permanent, and growing inspiration. 
Not only his style, but his callous pertinent 
way of looking upon the sordid and ugly 
sides of life, becomes every day a more specific 
feature in the literature of France. And 
only the other year, a work of some power 
appeared in Paris, and appeared with infinite 
scandal, which owed its whole inner signifi- 
cance and much of its outward form to the 
study of our rhyming thief.^ 

The world to which he introduces us is, as 
before said, blackguardly and bleak. Paris 
swarms before us, full of famine, shame, and 
death ; monks and the servants of great lords 
hold high wassail upon cakes and pastry ; the 
poor man licks his lips before the baker's win- 
dow ; people with patched eyes sprawl all 
night under the stall ; chuckling Tabary 
transcribes an improper romance ; bare- 
bosomed lasses and ruffling students swagger 
in the streets ; the drunkard goes stumbling 
homeward ; the graveyard is full of bones ; 
and away on Montfaucon, Colin de Cayeux 
and Montigny hang draggled in the rain. Is 
there nothing better to be seen than sordid 
misery and worthless jo3^s? Only where the 
poor old mother of the poet kneels in church 
below painted windows, and makes tremu- 
lous supplication to the Mother of God. 

In our mixed world, full of green fields and 
happy lovers, where not long before, Joan of 

^ Nicholas Boileau-Despreau-x (1636-1711), the 
leading critic of the classical age in France 
- Frangois Rabelais {i49o?-i5S3), a great prose 
satirist ^ Perhaps Albert Glatigny's L'lllustre 
Brezacier (1873). 



Arc had led one of the highest and noblest lives 
in the whole story of mankind, tliis was all 
worth chronicling that our poet could per- 
ceive. His eyes were indeed sealed with his 
own filth. He dwelt all his life in a pit more 
noisome than the dungeon at Meun. In the 
moral world, also, there are large phenomena 
not recognisable out of holes and corners. 
Loud winds blow, speeding home deep-laden 
ships and sweeping rubbish from the earth ; 
the lightning leaps and cleans the face of 
heaven ; high purposes and brave passions 
shake and sublimate men's spirits ; ' and 
meanwhile, in the narrow dungeon of his 
soul, Villon is mumbling crusts and picking 
vermin. 

Along with this deadly gloom of outlook, we 
must take another characteristic of his work : 
its unrivalled insincerity. I can give no better 
similitude of this quality than I have given 
already : that he comes up with a whine, and 
runs away with a whoop and his finger to his 
nose. His pathos is that of a professional 
mendicant who should happen to be a man of 
genius ; his levity that of a bitter street arab, 
full of bread. On a first reading, the pathetic 
passages preoccupy the reader, and he is 
cheated out of an alms in the shape of sym- 
pathy. But when the thing is studied the 
illusion fades away : in the transitions, above 
all, we can detect the evil, ironical temper of 
the man ; and instead of a flighty work, where 
many crude but genuine feelings tiunble to- 
gether for the mastery as in the lists of tourna- 
ment, we are tempted to think of the Large 
Testament as of one long-dravm epical grimace, 
pulled by a merry-andrew,^ who has found a 
certain despicable eminence over hiunan re- 
spect and human affections by perching himself 
astride upon the gallows. Between these two 
views, at best, all temperate judgments will 
be found to fall; and rather, as I imagine, 
toward the last. 

There were two things on which he felt with 
perfect and, in one case, even threatening 
sincerity. 

The first of these was an undisguised envy 
of those richer than himself. He was forever 
drawing a parallel, already exemplified from 
his own words, between the happy life of the 
well-to-do and the miseries of the poor. 
Burns, too proud and honest not to work, 
continued through all reverses to sing of 

^ clown 



674 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



poverty with a light, defiant note. Beranger ^ 
waited till he was himself beyond the reach of 
Avant, before writing the Old Vagabond or 
Jacques. .Samuel Johnson, although he was 
very sorry to be poor, "was a great arguer for 
the advantages of poverty" in his ill days.^ 
Thus it is that brave men carry their crosses, 
and smile with the fox burrowing in their 
vitals.^ But Villon, who had not the courage 
to be poor with honesty, now whiningly im- 
plores our sympathy, now shows his teeth 
upon the dung-heap with an ugly snarl. He 
envies bitterly, envies passionately. Pov- 
erty, he protests, drives men to steal, as 
hunger makes the wolf sally from the forest. 
The poor, he goes on, will always have a carp- 
ing word to say, or, if that outlet be denied, 
nourish rebellious thoughts. It is a calumny 
on the noble army of the poor. Thousands in 
a small way of life, ay, and even in the smallest 
go through life with tenfold as much honour 
and dignity and peace of mind, as the rich 
gluttons whose dainties and state-beds awak- 
ened Villon's covetous tem.per. And every 
morning's sun sees thousands who pass whis- 
tling to their toil. But Villon was the "mau- 
vais pauvre " : ■* defined by Victor Hugo, and, 
in its English expression, so admirably stereo- 
typed by Dickens. He was the first wicked 
sans-culotte.^ He is the man of genius with 
the mole-skin cap.'' He is mighty pathetic 
and beseeching here in the street, but I would 
not go down a dark road with him for a large 
consideration. 

The second of the points on which he was 
genuine and emphatic was common to the 
middle ages ; a deep and somewhat snivelling 
con\dction of the transitory nature of this life 
and the pity and horror of death. Old age 
and the grave, with some dark and yet half- 
sceptical terror of an after-world — these 
were ideas that clung about his bones like a 
disease. An old ape, as he says, may play all 
the tricks in its repertory, and none of them 
will tickle an audience into good humour. 
'■'Tousjours vieil synge est desplaisant." '' It is 
not the old jester who receives most recogni- 
tion at a tavern party, but the young fellow, 
fresh and handsome, who Icnows the new 

. ^ a famous French song-writer (17S0-1857) 
^ cf. p. 348 a, above ^ Like the Spartan boy in 
the well-known story. "* vicious pauper ^ radical 
revolutionist •* Such caps are common in the 
slums of London. "^ An old ape is always tiresome. 



slang, and carries off his vice with a certain 
air. Of this, as a tavern jester himself, he 
would be pointedly conscious. As for the 
women with whom he was best acquainted, 
his reflections on their old age, in all their 
harrowing pathos, shall remain in the original 
for me. Horace^ has disgraced himself to 
something the same tune; but what Horace 
throws out with an ill-favoured laugh, Villon 
dwells on with an almost maudlin v^himper. 

It is in death that he finds his truest inspira- 
tion ; in the swift and sorrowful change that 
overtakes beauty ; in the strange revolution 
by which great fortunes and renowns are di- 
minished to a handful of churchyard dust ; and 
in the utter passing away of what was once 
lovable and mighty. It is in this that the 
mixed texture of his thought enables him to 
reach such poignant and terrible effects, and 
to enhance pity with ridicule, like a man cut- 
ting capers to a funeral march. It is in this, 
also, that he rises out of himself into the 
higher spheres of art. So, in the ballade by 
which he is best known, he rings the changes 
on names that once stood for beautiful and 
queenly women, and are now no more than 
letters and a legend. "Where are the snows 
of yester year ? " runs the burden.- And so, in 
another not so famous, he passes in review 
the dift'erent degrees of bygone men, from the 
holy Apostles and the golden Emperor of the 
East, down to the heralds, pursuivants, and 
trumpeters, who also bore their part in the 
world's pageantries and ate greedily at great 
folks' tables: all this to the refram of "So 
much carry the winds away!" Probabty, 
there was some melancholy in his mind for a 
yet lower grade, and Montigny and Colin de 
Cayeux clattering their bones on Paris gibbet. 
Alas, and with so pitiful an experience of life, 
Villon can offer us nothing JDUt terror and 
lamentation about death ! No one has ever 
more skilfully communicated liis own disen- 
chantment ; no one ever blown a more ear- 
piercing note of sadness. This unrepentant 
thief can attain neither to Christian confi- 
dence, nor to the spirit of the bright Greek 
saying, that whom the gods love die early. 
It is a poor heart, and a poorer age, that can- 
not accept the conditions of life with some 
heroic readiness. 



^ the famous Roman satirist (65-S B.C.) - of. 
p. 629, above 



FRANgOIS VILLON 



675 



The date of the Large Testament is the last 
date in the poet's biography. After having 
achieved that admirable and despicable per- 
formance, .he disappears into the night from 
whence he came. How or when he died, 
wliether decently in bed or trussed up to a 
gallows, remains a riddle for foolhardy com- 
mentators. It appears his health had suffered 
in the pit at Meun ; he was thirty years of age 
and quite bald ; with the notch in his under hp 



where Sermaise had struck him v»dth the sword, 
and what wrinkles the reader may imagine. 
In default of portraits, this is all I have been 
able to piece together, and perhaps even the 
baldness should be taken as a figure of his 
destitution. A sinister dog, in all hkelihood, 
but with a look in his eye, and the loose flexile 
mouth that goes with wit and an overweening 
sensual temperam.ent. Certainly the sorriest 
figure on the rolls of fame. 



NOTES 



INTRODUCTORY 

That there is little literature in English that is 
of high quality between the Norman Conquest 
and the middle of the fourteenth century is not 
surprising if we remember the social conditions of 
the country. Scholars in England, as in tiie rest 
of Europe at that time, wrote and spoke and 
read Latin. Most books of learning, there- 
fore, whether sacred or profane, — histories, 
scientific, philosophical, religious, and literary 
treatises, etc., — ■ were written in Latin. The 
language of the upper classes was French. The 
French literature of the continent was accessible 
to them, and many of the most interesting literary 
works in Old French — romances, plays, legends 
of saints, religious songs, love songs, and political 
satires — were written in England by persons 
whose native language was French. This con- 
tinued until the fourteenth century, when, as we 
learn from many evidences, the upper classes 
began to give up French ; see the picturesque 
account of this given by Trevisa, p. 71 of this 
book. The history of literature in England is 
therefore in this period a very different thing from 
the history of English literature, and we cannot 
judge of the literary ability, tastes, or culture of 
Englishmen from 1066 to 1350 without taking 
into account what they read and wrote in Latin 
and French as well as in English. 

During all this time the principal works written 
in English were such as were supposed to be of 
practical interest to those who could not read 
Latin or French : sermons, religious treatises, 
poems of sacred or secular history, didactic poems, 
and the like. Some works of entertainment were 
produced for those who understood English only, 
but as parchment was very expensive, few of 

^ For convenience of reference, page numbers are 
given throughout. For the poetical selections, line 
numbers are also given ; for the prose selections, a or 
h is added to the page number, when necessary, to 
indicate whether the passage discussed is in the first 
or the second column. 



these were written down, the usual way of pub- 
lishing them being to recite them. 

Another fact must be taken into consideration 
in studying the literary culture of England in the 
Middle Ages. Only a small part of the writings 
which once existed have come do\\m to us. A 
large portion of mediaeval literature has perished 
by the ordinary decay and accidents natural to the 
passage of so long a time ; but there have been 
also some special agencies of destruction. Cliief 
among them was the disestablishment of the 
monasteries in England by Henry VIII. He did 
not, to be sure, order the destruction of the manu- 
scripts ; but no care was taken to preserve them, 
and many were destroyed by ignorant zealots, 
while many were wantonly used for the vilest 
purposes. What happened may be read in Dr. 
Gasquet's Henry the VIII and the English 
Monasteries or in John Bale's Leyland's New 
Year's Gift to King Henry VIII. Bale, who was 
a learned scholar of that time, says : " Never had 
we bene offended for the losse of our lybraryes, 
beynge so many in nombre, and in so desolate 
places for the more parte, yf the chiefe monu- 
mentes and most notable workes of our e.xcellent 
wryters had bene reserved. . . . But to de- 
stroye all without consyderacyon is, and wyll be 
unto England for ever, a moste horryble infamy 
amonge the grave senyours of other nacyons. 
A greate nombre of them whych purchased those 
superstycyouse mansj^ons [i.e., the monasteries] 
reserved of those lybrar>'e bokes . . . some to 
secure theyr candel-styckes and some to rubbe 
their bootes. Some they solde to the grossers 
and sope sellers, and some they sent over see to 
the bokebynders, not in small nombre, but at 
times whole shyppes full, to the wonder>-nge of 
the foren nacyons. ... I knowe a merchaunt 
man, whych shall at thys tj-me be namelesse, that 
boughte the contentes of two noble lybrarves for xl 
shyll>Tiges pr\^ce, a shame it is to be spoken. 
This stuffe hathe he occupyed [i.e., used] in the 
stede of graye paper [wrapping paper] by the 
space of more than X. yeares, and yet he hath 
store ynough for as many yeares to come." 



677 



678 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



THE PRONUNCIATION OF MIDDLE 

ENGLISH 

Even those students who do not try to read 
the original text of the Middle EngHsh selections 
should try to pronounce some parts of the poems, 
at least, in order to obtain a sense of the verse 
effects. 

The pronunciation of Middle EngHsh changed 
considerably between the beginning and the end 
of the period and there were many differences 
between the different dialects at the same time. 
Besides this, we assume that as great difi'erences 
existed then between different individuals as 
exist now in the pronunciation of Modern Eng- 
Hsh. Therefore only very rough approximations 
to the actual sounds can be suggested; but such 
a conventional system will enable the reader to 
get some idea of the fuller tones of ancient Eng- 
lish and to m.aintain in his reading a uniform 
and unbroken poetic feeling. 

The following sounds are commonly given for 
Chaucer's English and may be used for Middle 
English in general : 

Vowels 

long a as in father. 

short a as in Florida. 

long e (or ee, ie) as in file, or fate. 

short e as in met. 

long i (or y) as in mackine. 

long (or 00) as in vote; 00 is never pronounced 
like 00 in boot. 

short as in not. 

ou as 00 in boot ; but occasionally like o + 00. 

long 11 as French u or German ii. 

short u the same, but short. 

short u and short also often have the sound 
of u in full; this is in words which have in modern 
English the vowel sound of sun, son, but, ivonder, 
etc. ; u is never pronounced like u in but. 

Diphthongs 

ai, ay originally like / in pine; in Chaucer's 
time like c + i or ey in they. 

ail, aw like on in house, but occasional^ like au 
in fraud. 

ei, ey = e + i oi- ey in they. 

CM, ew = e + 00 with emphasis on the c. 
■oi, oy as in noise, boy. 

Consonants 

As in modem English, with the following ex- 
ceptions : 



ch always as in such. 

f, when between vowels, like v. 

gh like German ch. 

r was trilled. 

There were no silent letters. The k in knoweth, 
the / in folk, the g in gnawe were sounded. Un- 
accented final e was pronounced like e in German 
Gabe or nieine; but in verse when followed by a 
word beginning with a vowel or a weak h (such as 
his, hire, him, habbe, have, hadde, honour, hour) it 
was not sounded at aU. 

A few additional letters which are used in the 
early texts will be noticed as they occur. 



EARLY MIDDLE ENGLISH 

THE ANGLO-SAXON CHRONICLE 

Pages 1 f. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle belongs 
for the most part, of course, to the history of 
English literature before the Norman Conquest; 
but the later records, especially those of the 
Peterborough version, from which our selection 
is taken, are of great importance for the study 
of modern English prose. The Chronicle seems 
to have been begun in the reign of Alfred the 
Great, perhaps in consequence of his efforts for 
the education of his people. It exists in six 
versions, differing more or less from one another 
both as to the events recorded and the period of 
time covered, but together forming, in a manner, 
a single work. The early entries, beginning with 
60 B.C., were compiled from various sources and 
are, for the most part, very meager and unin- 
teresting. Here are the complete records for 
two years: "An. DCCLXXII. Here (that is, 
in this year) Bishop Milred died." "An. 
DCCL^iXIII. Here a red cross appeared in 
the sky after sunset; and in this year the Ller- 
cians and the men of Kent fought at Otford; 
and wondrous serpents were seen in the land of 
the South-Saxons." For long, weary stretches 
of years, there are, with the notable exception 
of the vivid account of the death of Cynewulf, 
few more exciting entries than these. Even 
when great events are recorded, there is no effort 
to teU how or why they occurred, no attempt to 
produce an interesting narrative. In the time 
of King Alfred, however, a change appears, and, 
though the records still have the character of an- 
nals rather than of history, the narrative is often 
very detailed and interesting, especially' in regard 
to the long and fierce contest with the Danes. 

After the Norman Conquest, one version of 



NOTES 



679 



the Chronicle, that kept by the monks of Peter- 
borough, contains entries of the greatest im- 
portance both for the history of the times, and 
for the state of the EngHsh language then. The 
latest of these entries is for the year 11 54, when 
the turbulent reign of the weak Stephen was 
followed by the strong and peaceful administration 
of Henry II. The selection we have chosen is 
from the entry for 1137, and gives a starthng 
picture of the terrors of the time. But although 
the account is true, it would be a mistake to infer 
from it, as some have done, tliat civilization had 
perished in England. Not only were the monks 
of Peterborough at this very time rebuilding their 
beautiful monastery and other men erecting 
churches and cathedrals of wonderful beauty in 
other parts of England, it was in these very years 
that hterature flourished with extraordinary vigor. 
The great stories of King Arthur and Merlin the 
Magician first appear in literature in King Ste- 
phen's reign. It may well give one a shock, at least 
of surprise, to learn that Geoffrey of Monmouth, 
who introduced these stories into hterature, dedi- 
cated one of his books to the very Alexander, 
bishop of Lincoln, mentioned in 1. 12 and the 
other to Robert earl of Gloucester, King Stephen's 
half-brother and bitterest enemy. 

The most notable things about this passage, 
considered as English prose, are its simplicity and 
straightforwardness and its strong resemblance 
to modern English in sentence structure and word 
order. These features are probably to be ac- 
counted for by the fact that, though the writer 
doubtless understood Latin, he did not feel that 
he was producing literature, but only making a 
plain record of facts, and consequently did not 
attempt the clumsy artificialities so often pro- 
duced by those who tried to imitate Latin prose in 
English. 

Pronunciation. In addition to the usual 
symbols of sounds (see p. 67S), the following 
require special attention in this selection : 

CB like long e m' there: gmre, p. i, 1. i, under- 
gceton, 1. 16, wceron, 1. 21,'cevric, 1. 22, agcenes, 1. 23, 
dates, p. 2, 1. I, uuaren, 1. 4, ncevre, 1. 4, hceved, 1. 10, 
gcBde, 1. II, kcernes 1. 11. 

(E like short a: at, p. i, 1. 10. 

ce like long a: alle, p. i, 1. 14. 

dii like aw in saw: saule, p. i, 1. 8. 

eo = c + 0: com, p. i, 1. 4, heolden, 1. 20, Iieom, 
p. 2, 11. 2, 6. 

c and cc like tch: micel, p. i, 1. 6, avric, 1. 22, 
rice, 1. 22 ; uurccce, 1. 25, wrecce, p. 2, 1. 17. 

g like y: gcerc, p. i, I. i, get (pr. yet), 1. 5, gcede, 
p. 2, 1. n. 



i like y: iafen (pr. yaven), p. i, 1. 14. 

sc like sh: sculde, p. i, 1. 3, biscop, 1. 11. 

u and im like w: suikes, p. i, 1. 15, suoren, 1. 19, 
suencten, 1. 24, suythc, 1. 25; imenden, p. i, 1. 3, 
uurecce, 1. 25, imaren, 1. 27, uuaren, p. 2, 1. 4, 
uurythen, 1. 10, iiuerse, 1. 19. 

POEMA MORALE 

Pp. 2 ff. This is the first important English 
poem after the Norman Conquest. It consists 
of a large number (about 400 lines) of moral and 
religious precepts embodying the author's philos- 
ophy of life, and was evident^ written for the 
purpose of inculcating right living in all who read 
or heard it. As the short specimen given here 
shows, the questions of life, present and future, 
are treated in a spirit of selfish prudence, and the 
sentiment most frequently and powerfully ap- 
pealed to is that of self-preservation. The spirit 
of the author is a sincere but hard and narrow 
Christianit}', untouched by the tenderness of 
personal affection for Jesus or of concern for one's 
friends and fellow-men notable in the best work of 
Richard Rolle, Thom^as de Hales, or even the 
dull but lovable Orrm. The author has, however, 
much skill in language and versification, and at 
times the vigor and vividness of his work is unde- 
niable. The poem must have been very popular in 
its day, as all peoples in the early stages of de- 
velopment are fond of proverbial sayings and 
similar forms of practical wisdom. Several 
copies of it, made in various parts of England, 
have come down to us. 

The verse is the seven-stressed hne known as 
the septenarius, or septenary. The rhythm seems 
to me trochaic, or falling. The line naturally 
falls into two parts rhytlimicalb/ : one of four 
stresses and one of three. The weak final e is 
always pronounced except before a \'owel sound. 
Every line, therefore, ends in a weak sj^llable, 
and an extra sjdlable often occurs at the ccesura 
{i.e., the metrical pause within the line). Many 
lines also have a weak syllable at the beginning 
before the first stress (see 11. 2, 3, 8, 10, etc.). 

Pronunciation. The following require special 
notice : 

a like a in name: falc, 1. 10. 

ce like long e in tlicre: wcelde, 1. 2, i-lced, 1. 5, ar, 
11. 13, 17, ardie, 1. 19, csie, 1. 20, ach, 1. 27, cevrich, 

ce like short a: am, 1. i, seal, 1. 21. thanne, 
1. 22, 

ea hke short a: sccal, 11. 26, 35. 
ea like long a in father: cald, 1. 4. 



68o 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



eo like short o: eom, 1. 4, weorde, 1. 3, weorche, 1. 1 1 . 

eo like long e in /ete; i-beoii, 11. 3, 28, 6eo, 11. 4, 26, 
28, ieo^/;, 1. 19, i-seon, 1. 18, seowen, 1. 22, heovene, 
1. 27, seovene, 1. 28, leovre, 1. 2g, freond, 1. 30. 

M like j;( or short /; <i«<ie, 1. 2, unnut, 1. 5, a-gult, 

I. II, &2</A, 1. 23, for-yut, 1. 25, wwZe, 1. 26, «((/", 

II. 29, 40, sulfne, 1. 33, wulleth, 1. 34, ww^s, 1. 39. 
/z like German ch: ah, 1. 2. 

sc like 5/z; ^cc?, 1. 21, sciden, 1. 22, 5cea/I, 11. 26, 
35, scolde, 1. 37. 

^c like s: sclawen, 1. 37. 

ORRM 
The Orrmulum 

Pp. 4 f. The Orrmidum is interesting almost 
solely because the author was a theorist about 
English spelling. He devised a system of his own 
for representing the pronunciation as exactly as 
possible and carried it out with much skill and 
consistency throughout his long poem of 20,000 
lines. As scholars are now greatly interested in 
learning how English was pronounced in early 
ages, Orrm's work is of the highest value. As 
literature, it hardly deserves consideration. It 
was not intended to be a poem in the modern sense. 
It was written in verse because verse then seemed 
the proper form for anything that aspired to be 
literature. The author merely wished to present 
to his countrymen an English version of the Gos- 
pels read in the services of the church throughout 
the year, accompanied by explanations which 
should make clear their whole meaning, figurative 
as well as literal. 

It is perhaps the most tedious book in existence. 
This arises in large part from its excessive explicit- 
ness. Orrm is not content to express an idea 
simply and clearly once but must repeat it again 
and again ; and in his anxiety that there shall be 
no mistake as to his meaning, instead of using 
pronouns to refer to matters already mentioned, 
he repeats at each recurrence of an object or an 
idea all that he has previously said about it. Al- 
though he was doubtless by nature a dull man, 
this peculiarity of his style seems intentional and 
due to his belief in the dulness of his readers ; for 
the Dedication, addressed to his brother Walter, 
is free from this repetition and, though entirely 
lacking in charm, is simple and straightforward in 
style. His poem, seems not to have been alto- 
gether unprovoked, for it was written at the re- 
quest of his brother Walter ; but there is no evi- 
dence that it met with any appreciation, for the 
single copy that has been ijreserved seems to be 



that written by the author himself. In spite of 
his dulness, however, the gentleness and amiabil- 
ity of Orrm and his real love of God and his fellow- 
men are manifest in all his work. 

In his time the old system of spelling English 
was being abandoned, partly because the language 
had changed so greatly that the spelling no longer 
fitted the pronunciation, and partly because most 
of the copyists had been trained in spelling French 
and had difficulty in adapting the French system 
to English words. There must have been much 
discussion of spelling and more than one phonetic 
system was probably devised, but Orrm's is the 
only one of any individual character that has come 
down to us. 

The verse of the Orrmulum is the septenarius, 
for the lines as printed are to be taken in pairs. 
It differs from the verse of the Poenia Morale in 
having an iambic, or rising, rhj^thm and in being 
monotonously regular. 

11. 7-10. Orrm teUs us that both he and his 
brother Walter were Augustinian canons, that is, 
members of an order whose function it was to read 
the services of the Church. One or both of them 
may have been attached to the Cathedral of 
Lincoln ; at any rate, the language of Orrm points 
to that district. 

Pronunciation. In the Orrmidum every vowel 
followed by a doubled consonant in the same 
syllable is short; all other vowels are long; 
thus the first vowel in hroper, 1. i, flashess, 1. 2, 
lernenn, 1. 20, is long; both vowels in affterr, 1. 2, 
Ennglissh, 1. 19, wirrkenn, 1. 24, are short. In a 
few instances there is a mark of length or of short- 
ness (see 11. 6, 7, 37, 44). 

The symbol " p " has the sound of th in thin, 
thank. The symbol " 5 " may be pronounced 
like y in yet, but it should be made rougher and 
stronger than that sound. 

LAYAMON 

The Brut 

Pp. 5 ff. Layamon, the author of The Brut, 
was a man of much greater ability than Orrm. 
His work is a versified chronicle or history of Brit- 
ain from the destruction of Troy to 6S9 a.d. 
It is based mainly upon a similar French poem, 
the Roman de Brut, by Wace ; but Layamon added 
much from oral traditions known to him, especially 
about King Arthur. The merits of the poem 
at its best are those of a lively and picturesque 
narrative, rapid, simple, and vigorous, with much 
of the spirit of the older English epic. The versi- 



NOTES 



68i 



fication also, though not precisely that of the older 
epic, is thoroughly national. Rhyme occurs now 
and then, and may be due to French influence ; 
but, as it is used, it gives rather the effect of the 
occasional rhymes in the later old English heroic 
poems, like the Battle of Maldoii, and is probably 
a native development. 

To us of the present day the most interesting 
parts of Layamon are those which deal with the 
story of King Lear, the coming of Hengist and 
Horsa, and, above all, the wars and death of King 
Arthur. The Brut contains about 30,000 lines 
and exists in two versions, one of about 1200A.D., 
from which our selection is taken, and another of- 
fifty j-ears later, a sort of modernization made 
necessary by the rapid change of the language 
in those days. 

Layamon's name is traditionally spelled with a 
y, but the sound originally was a voiced spirant 
guttural, more like g than y. Both o's are 
sounded like a in father. As the voiced spirant 
guttural does not occur in modern English, the 
name may be pronounced either " La'-ga-mon " 
or " La'ya-mon." 

Layamon was a priest who lived at Arley on 
the Severn, about 20 miles west and a little south 
of Birmingham. His dialect was therefore very 
different from that of Orrm. 

The battle between Arthur and his traitorous 
son Modred is perhaps in modern times the most 
famous episode of Arthurian story. The exact 
location of this legendary battle cannot be deter- 
mined. Layamon says it occurred in Cornwall 
at Camelford on the river Tambre. The river 
Tamar is still the boundary between Cornwall and 
Devonshire. A place called Camelford, identified 
with the Camelot of other forms of the Arthurian 
legend, still exists, but it is twenty miles from the 
river. It is, however, near Tintagel, which is 
famous in Arthurian story. 

Uther (1. 28609) is Arthur's father, Uther Pen- 
dragon. Argante is not mentioned elsewhere. 
Some other versions of the story tell of three 
queens who received Arthur; Malory gives their 
names. 

The story as told by Malory (p. 85) and by 
Tennyson (p. 528) should be read along with 
this. 

Pronunciation. See the general notes on 
pronunciation and the special remarks on Poema 
Morale. Note further sceort (pr. short), 1. 28624, 
sceoven (pr. shoven), 1. 28625 ; habbeoth (pr. hdveth), 
1. 2S607 ; sceone (pr. shaync), 1. 28613, eovste (pr. 
ayvste), 1. 28629; seolhe (pr. sUhthe), 1. 28618; 
'wulle (pr. wille), 1. 28610, -wunne (pr. winne), 



1. 28621, BriMes (pr. Britles), 1. 28572, Brulten 
(pr. Britten), 1. 28620; iitheii (pr. to rhyme with 
Mod. Eng. heathen), 1. 28625. 

THE ANCREN RIWLE 

P. 8. The Ancren Riwle, as its name indi- 
cates, is a treatise for the guidance and instruction 
of some nuns. We learn from the book itself 
that it was written, at their special request, for 
three young women of gentle birth, — " daughters 
of one father and one mother," who had forsaken 
the world for the life of religious contemplation 
and meditation. 

There has been some discussion as to the author ; 
he is thought by some to have been Richard Poore, 
or Le Poor, bishop successively of Chichester, 
Salisbury, and Durham, who was born at Tarrent, 
and whose heart was buried there after his death 
in 1237. But this view is probably incorrect, as 
the nunnery at Tarrent was a large one, while 
the women for whom this book was written lived 
alone. At any rate, the author was evidently 
a man in whom learning and no little knowledge 
of the world were combined with a singularly sweet 
simplicity, which has often been taken for naivete. 
His learning appears abundantly in his familiar- 
ity with the writings of the great Church Fathers 
and the classical Latin authors who were known in 
his day ; his knowledge of the world appears partly 
in his sagacious coxmsels as to the more serious 
temptations of a nun's life, and partly in his ad- 
aptation of courtly romantic motives to spiritual 
themes ; while the sweet simplicity of his charac- 
ter is constantly and lovably revealed in the tone 
of all that he says — even in its sly and charming 
humor — and in his solicitude about infinite 
petty details, which are individually insignificant, 
to be sure, but mean much for the delicac}- and 
peace of life. Of the eight parts or books into 
which the work is divided only two are devoted' 
to external, material matters, the other six to the 
inner life ; and this proportion is a true indication 
of the comparative values which the good coun- 
selor sets upon these things. The style, for all 
the learning displayed, is simple and direct, with 
few traces of Latin sentence structure or word 
order — a fact due perhaps to the nature and des- 
tination of the book no less than to the character 
of the author. 

There are versions in French and Latin. The 
French seems to have been the original, and the 
English and Latin to have been translated from it. 
The impounding of stray cattle (1. 9) is still prac- 
tised in many country towns and villages. 



682 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



KING HORN 

Pp. 9 flf. This is one of the earliest and best 
of the metrical romances — a kind of literature 
which then filled the place now occupied by the 
novel. Ancient romances, like early novels, usu- 
ally begin at the beginning. In our first selection, 
this part of his subject has been treated with artis- 
tic brevity by the author and made essential to 
the story itself. The rest of the story tells how 
Horn and his companions were received by Ail- 
mar, king of Westerness ; how the king's daughter 
Rymenhild falls in love with Horn and woos him ; 
how their love is betraj^ed by Fikenhild and Horn 
is banished ; how, after seven years of adventure 
in Ireland, he returns just in time to rescue Rymen- 
hild from a forced marriage, marries her himself, 
and immediately sets out for his own country, 
where he rescues his mother and avenges his 
father ; how during this absence his old comrade 
Fikenhild seizes and carries off Rymenhild; and 
how Horn, with some of his followers, disguised 
as minstrels, enters the castle, kills the traitor and 
his men, and rewards his faithful followers. 

Our second selection gives a part of the story of 
Rymenhild's wooing of Horn, whose royal descent 
is unknown to her. The return of Horn from 
Ireland is told in modified form in the ballad of 
Hind Horn (p. 83). 

The narrative is full of incident, is well con- 
istructed, thoroughl}^ motived, and told with ra- 
pidity and directness. The poem contains 1568 
lines and, judging from the number of versions, 
was very popular. 

My translation of this poem is very unsatis- 
factory. The original is in verses of three or four 
stresses ; the lines of three stresses usually end in 
a weak syllable. It is very difficult, if not entirely 
impossible, to secure this effect in a long poem in 
modern English. In the case of this translation 
it could be done only by disregarding the matter 
and tone of the original and introducing ideas en- 
tirely alien to the simple and almost bald narrative. 
But I have tried to retain the 3- or 4-stress move- 
ment throughout. The poem was not intended 
for reading but for recitation to a musical accom- 
paniment. If the reader will kindly recall the 
manner in which he used to recite in sing-song 
with strong stresses, 

Lit'-tle Tom'-my Tuck'-er 
Sang' for' his sup'-per, 

he v/ill get the movement of the original and will 
perhaps be able to produce a passable rhythm 
in the lines of the translation. 



NICHOLAS DE GUILDFORD (?) 

The Owl and the Nightingale 

Pp. 14 ff. The Owl and the Nightingale is a 
work of very different character from any of the 
preceding. It is poetry in the modern sense of the 
term and deserves a very high rank When tested 
by the best standards of modern taste. The strife 
between the Ov/1 and the Nightingale is in itself 
such a theme as existed by the hundred in mediae- 
val literature. Strifes and debates, indeed, 
formed a special literary type, found in every 
language cultivated in Western Europe. There 
■ were strifes between Summer and Winter, between 
Youth and Age, between Water and Wine; de- 
bates as to whether a soldier or a scholar is the 
better lover, as to whether women are an evil or 
a good, as to any subject having, or seeming to 
have, two sides. Only a few of them rise to any 
considerable dignity or beauty or force. One, 
The Debate between the Body and the Soul, is 
among the most powerful religious poems of that 
age and is alm^ost as impressive to-day as v.'hen it 
was first written, though some of its themes have 
since been worn threadbare. What especially 
distinguishes ' The Owl and the Nightingale is the 
astonishing dramatic sympathy of the author. 
The grief and indignation of the Owl at the failure 
of the world to recognize the beauty of his song 
are set forth with the same imaginative simplicity 
and candor as is the Nightingale's confidence in 
her own superiority. Such sympathetic imagina- 
tive power, such psychological subtlety, and such 
humor as are shown in this poem and in Chaucer 
are rare even in these days when machine-made 
sympathy and subtlety have been put within the 
reach of the least endowed. The author's name 
is unknown ; it has been supposed to be Nicholas 
de Guildford, because towards the end of the poem 
the birds agree to leave the decision of the strife 
between them to Master Nicholas of Guildford, 
who is described as very skilful in music. But 
obviously Master Nicholas is more probably not 
the author, but some friend of his. The poem 
contains 1794 lines. 

As King Alfred was famed for his wisdom it was 
natural that many proverbs should be ascribed to 
him. A collection of them (709 lines) is preserved 
from the beginning of the thirteenth centurj'. 
Most of them are very good and some are pictur- 
esquely and even poetically expressed. They are 
published by Dr. R. Morris in An Old English 
Miscellany and reprinted in part, in Morris and 
Skeat's Specimens of Early English, Part I. 
This collection does not contain the proverb 



NOTES 



683 



quoted in 11. 351-352, but there may have been 
other collections. 

CURSOR MUNDI 

Pp. 17 f. Cursor Miindi is a versified ac- 
count of biblical history from the Creation to 
the time of Solomon and from the birth of the 
Virgin Mary to her Assumption, ending with 
the Final Judgment. In subject-matter and in 
the organization of it, Cursor Mundi resembles the 
great dramatic cycles of the Middle Ages; so 
much so, indeed, that it has been supposed to be 
the source of some of these plays. The poem is 
very long, about 25,000 lines, and seems to have 
been very widely read. The specimen given here 
exhibits its merits fairi)^ and may serve to show us 
one of the most agreeable forms in which our 
ancestors received their knowledge of Bible his- 
tor3^ The story here related is, of course, not 
from any of the canonical books of the Bible, but 
from the apocryphal gospel of Matthew. 

THOMAS DE HALES 

A LuvE Ron 

Pp. 19 f. Thomas de Hales was a Francis- 
can friar, known to us by an affectionate message 
to him in a letter from the famous Adam de Ma- 
risco. It is therefore probable that the date 
ascribed to his poem should be about 1250. It is 
certain that he lived before the order of friars had 
been corrupted b}^ the intrusion of designing and 
unscrupulous men, and while it still retained the 
purity and enthusiasm of its great founder. 
Thomas was a man of great learning, but the 
sweetness and passionate simplicity of this little 
poem are not imworthy of the fine spirit of St. 
Francis himself. The subject of the poem and the 
circumstances of its composition as given in the 
first stanza, it may be noted,- indicate the near- 
ness of the friars to the people, — that familiar and 
homely interest in all the affairs of old and young 
which gave them their tremendous opportunities 
for good and for evil in the thirteenth and four- 
teenth centuries. 

In the title of the poem, "Ron" (pronoimced 
Roon) means a "charm or incantation"; it is 
derived from the name, riin, given to ancient Teu- 
tonic letters, which were used in magic. 

The poem contains 25 stanzas. Those omitted 
are as good as those given here, but they develop 
the same theme and contain few new ideas. 

With stanzas 9 and 10 compare the Ubi sunt 



poem (p. 23) and the Latin college song Uhi sunt 
qui ante nos In mundo fiiere ? 

Amadas and Idojme (1. 67) were a pair of 
lovers almost as famous in the Middle Ages as 
Tristram and Iseult. 

MIDDLE ENGLISH LYRICS 

Pp.' 21 jBf. The three little Lyrics brought to- 
gether here are among the best of the multitudi- 
nous lyrics of the age. Many of them have been 
preserved for us in manuscripts, many others are 
alluded to or quoted in snatches by chroniclers 
or writers of narrative poems, and manj;- more 
must have perished entirely, either through loss 
of the manuscripts or because they were never 
written down. Enough remain to pro\'e that the 
ancient fame of "Merrie England" for song was 
well deserved and to show that the poetical gifts 
of mediaeval Englishmen are to be studied not in 
dull didactic poem or prosy rhymed chronicle, but 
in poems written in the spirit of free and joyous 
artistry. Better knov\rn than any of those given 
here is the charming Cuckoo-song, composed about 
1250, of which the music as well as the words has 
come down to us. Of our selections the first and 
second are songs of springtime and love, and 
hardly require any comment, though it may be 
interesting to compare the second with the Earl of 
Surrey's treatment of the same theme on page 100. 
The third is an extract from a longer poem, but 
is a unit in itself and is one of the best Ij^rical ex- 
pressions of a theme made famous to the Middle 
Ages by St. Bernard of Clairvaux and to aU ages 
by Francois Villon (see Rossetti's translation of 
ViUon's ballade, p. 629). 



THE AGE OF CHAUCER 



WILLIAM LANGLAND (?) 
Piers the Ploavm.\n 

Pp. 24 flf. The poems which go under the name 
of Langland were, I think, the work of several 
distinct and very diff'erent men. One of these 
men wrote the Prologue and the first eight passus, 
or cantos, of the A-text (iSoo lines) about 1362. 
The poem became very popular and was continued 
by another man who carried it on to about the 
middle of the twelfth passus and left it unfinished. 
.A certain John But then finished it by a hasty and 
absurd account of the sudden death of the author. 
About 1377 another writer, equal to the first in 



684 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



picturesqueness of phrasing and vividness of de- 
tail, but deficient in power of consecutive thought 
and constructive ability, revised the whole poem 
composed by the iirst two writers, neglecting the 
passus containing the death of the author. His 
method of revision was to leave practically un- 
changed what he found written but to make nu- 
merous insertions, expanding suggestions of the 
original, and numerous additions, developing 
themes untouched by the earlier writers. The 
work as he left it is called the B-text. Fifteen 
or twenty years later a man of greater learning 
than any of the others and of a more orderly and 
systematic habit of mind than the author of the 
B-text, but of much less poetic ability — a pedant, 
in fact — revised the B-text, rearranging, insert- 
ing, and adding. The poem as he left it is called 
the C-text. The moral earnestness, the satirical 
power, the picturesque phrasing of the poem have 
long been recognized, but, until recently, when it 
was suggested that it was not all the work of one 
man, the poem was charged with vagueness, ob- 
scurity, formlessness. Now it appears that we 
ought to read and criticise the different parts sepa- 
rately; and if we do so, we find that the work 
of the first author (the first half of the A-text) is 
as clear as it is picturesque, that one need never 
be at a loss as to its meaning or the relation of its 
parts, and that its author was a man of remark- 
able constructive arid organizing power. Confu- 
sion and uncertainty do not enter until his work 
has received the well-meant and powerful but 
inartistic insertions and additions of others. His 
work may be seen in the first selection. That of 
the writer of the B-text is seen at its very best, and 
free from its usual defects, in the second selection, 
which constitutes his first insertion in the poem 
as he found it. 

As a whole, the series of poems is divided into 
two main sections: the first called the Vision of 
William concerning Piers the Plowman; and the 
second called Do-well, Do-better, and Do-best. 
Each section contains several visions. All are 
devoted to satire of the abuses reigning in all 
classes of society. The authors are not reformers 
in the sense of wishing to set forth new ideas or 
theories; they are conservatives, who hold that 
the evils of their time arise from neglect of the 
good ideals of the past, and who wish to restore the 
good conditions that existed in former times. 
Even the warnings addressed to the king betray 
no sense of conscious innovation. The figure of 
Piers the Plowman as the tj^iical honest labore;: — 
the only aspect in which he appears in the A-text 
— made a great impression upon the minds of the 



discontented peasants and their leaders, and his 
name and those of Do-well, Do-better, and Do- 
best — which were emphasized later — became 
rallying cries for the Peasants' Revolt of 1381. 
In the sixteenth century Piers the Ploiuman was 
much read by the religious reformers and was re- 
garded — like the works of Chaucer and Wiclif — 
as anti-Catholic. But the authors of the poems 
did not intend to attack the Church or Society, 
but only the abuses that had grown up in both. 

The first selection (p. 24) presents a vision of "a 
field full of folk," representative of the world in 
general with its diversified interests and occupa- 
tions. It will be observed that the author does 
not depict the world as altogether given over to 
evil practices, as is sometimes stated. He sees 
not only wasters but honest laborers, and not only 
lying and worthless palmers and pilgrims but also 
devout nuns and hermits, who observe the rules 
of religion and worship God sincerely. 

The second selection (p. 28) is a fable, intro- 
duced into the Prologue abruptly and without 
motivation by the author of the B-text. As the 
whole thing is a dream, this may be artistically 
justified. At any rate, it is one of the most pic- 
turesque and effective pieces of writing in the 
whole group of poems. It is supposed to have 
been written in 1377 when the old king Edward 
III, who had fallen into the hands of evil and cor- 
rupt counsellors, was lying ill, and his successor 
to the throne was Richard, the eight-year old 
son of the Black Prince. The conservatism of the 
author is shown in the fact that although he 
shares the anger and disgust with which the 
Commons regard their once beloved and admired 
monarch, he fears the change that will come when 
the old cat dies and the kitten becomes ruler. It 
is possible, however, that the poem was written 
later, after the death of Edward, and that the "old 
cat " is John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, who was 
in actual control of the government for several 
years. 

The verse of both selections is the Old English 
alliterative verse, modified somewhat by the 
changes which the language had imdergone 
since the Conquest. For several reasons, it seems 
probable that the use of this verse in the fourteenth 
century was due, not to a revival of the old form, 
but to a continuation of it throughout the cen- 
turies. It is very unlikely that there was any one 
in the fourteenth century who could read Old 
English (Anglo-Saxon) verse. Popular verse of 
this form may have existed in the north and west 
of England during the preceding centuries with 
very little chance of being committed to writing 



NOTES 



685 



(see p. 677, above) : the period of its reappear- 
ance in written literature is precisely that at which 
the upper classes were abandoning the use of French 
(see Trevisa, p. 71, above); and the differences 
between this alliterative verse and the older form 
are just such as might be expected if the verse 
had existed continuously, changing as the lan- 
guage changed. 

The structure of this verse is simple. Each 
line is divided into two half-lines, each having 
two principal stresses. The half-lines are bound 
together by alliteration of the stressed syllables; 
that is, these syllables begin with similar sounds. 
In the standard line, both of the stressed syllables 
in the first half-line and the first stressed syllable 
in the second begin alike; but all sorts of varia- 
tions from the standard occur. 



SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE (?) 

The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John 
Maundevile, Kt. 

Pp. 30 fif. The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John 
Maundcvile, Kt. is one of the greatest and most 
successful literary impostures ever perpetrated. 
It seems first to have been issued about 13 71 in 
French, from which it was very soon translated 
into Latin, English, and many other languages. 
Its popularity was enormous, as is attested by the 
immense number of Mss. which have come down 
to us, and by the frequency with which it has been 
reprinted ever since 1475, *^he date of the first 
printed edition. Incredible as are many of the 
stories it contains, the apparent simplicity and 
candor of the author, his careful distinction be-' 
tween what he himself had seen and what he re- 
ported only on hearsay, his effort to avoid all ex- 
aggeration even in his most absurd statements, 
gained ready belief for his preposterous fabrica- 
tions, and this was confirmed by the fact that 
some of the statements which at first seemed most 
incredible — such as the roundness of the earth — 
were actually true and were proved to be so by 
the discoveries of the fifteenth and sixteenth 
centuries. 

The book was really compiled from many sources, 
principally the travels of William of Boldensele, 
a German traveler of the previous century, and 
Friar Odoric of Pordenone, an Italian who visited 
.\sia in 1,316-1320, the Speculum Historiale of 
Vincent of Beauvais, a great mediaeval compila- 
tion of history and legend, and Pliny's Natural 
History, that great storehouse of the marvelous. 



As to the identity of the author, he is now believed 
to have been one Jean de Bourgogne, an English- 
man who fled from England after the execution 
of his lord, John baron de Mowbray, in 1322, but 
it is not certainly known whether MandeviUe or 
Bourgogne was his real name. Two witnesses of 
the sixteenth century record having seen at Liege 
a tomb to the memory of Dominus Johannes de 
MandeviUe, on which was an epitaph giving the 
date of his death as Nov. 17, 1371, and some verses 
declaring him to have been the English Ulysses. 
In any event, the book is one of the most fasci- 
nating books of marvels ever written, and the Eng- 
lish version, although a translation, is of the high- 
est importance for the history of English prose. 

The story told in Chapter IV is the source of 
William Morris' fine poem, The Lady of the Land 
(pp. 634 ff.). MandeviUe merely narrates the 
legend, Morris vizualizes the scene and all the 
occurrences, and transmits his vision to his readers. 

JOHN WICLIF 

The Gospel oe Ma the w 

Pp. 34 flf. Of John Wyclif no account is neces- 
sary here. Whatever may have been his own part 
in the translations of the Bible which go under his 
name, these translations are of great importance 
for the history of English prose style. The same 
selection (the fifth chapter of St. ]\'Iatthew) has 
therefore been given from both the earlier and the 
later versions. The differences between them are 
very striking and instructive. In order to afford 
opportunity for further study of the gradual de- 
velopment of the matchless st3'le of the Authorized 
Version of the English Bible, the same chapter 
is given from Tyndale's version (p. 96). Both 
the Authorized and the Revised versions are so 
easily accessible that it seems unnecessary to 
print the same chapter from them, but they 
should not be neglected in the comparison. 

SYR GAWAYN AND THE GRENE KNl'GHT 

Pp. 37 fif. The author of Syr Gawayn and the 
Grcne Knyght (p. 37) and Pearl (p. 46) — if these 
poems are really by the same author, as is usually 
supposed — was not merely a writer of great natural 
powers but a careful and conscious artist. It is 
supposed that Gawayn was written while the 
author was still occupied with worldly thoughts 
and interests and that Pearl and two (or three) 
other religious poems were composed after his 
conversion to a serious religious life; and this is 



686 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



a very reasonable supposition if the poems be the 
work of one man. 

Gawayn belongs to the number of metrical 
romances dealing with the knights of the Round 
Table and their adventures, but in one important 
respect it is very different from most of them. 
They are, as a rule, the work of authors who had 
little qualification for their task beyond a certain 
ease in narration and versification and a retentive 
memory. The author of Gawayn, however, does 
not merely repeat a story which he has heard or 
read ; he uses the materials of tradition as freely 
as Tennyson or Arnold or Swinburne or any other 
modern artist, and displays a power of construc- 
tion, a skill in climax, a sense of pictorial effect, 
fairly comparable with theirs. All this can be seen 
in the brief episode here given, which has been 
chosen, not because it is better than many others, 
but because it is self-explanatory. The interest 
of the reader is maintained uniiaggingly through- 
out the 2550 lines of the poem. 

The situation presented in our extract is as 
follows : King Arthur, the greatest of the kings 
of Britain, with the knights and ladies of his 
court, is celebrating the Christmas season. It is 
New Year's Day and all have attended service in 
the royal chapel and are seated in the banquet 
hall, where all "dainties" are served in double 
portions. The others ate ; but Arthur, who was 
young and somev/hat "wild of mood," would never 
eat on such festival days until he had either wit- 
nessad some adventure or heard some wonderful 
tale. Suddenly there rode in at the hall-door a 
gigantic knight, clothed in green and riding a 
green horse. He had long green hair and a green 
beard as big as a bush. All the trappings of his 
horse were green, with gold ornaments. He wore 
no armor and carried no shield or spear. In his 
right hand he had a branch of holly and in his left 
a huge battle-axe. The axe was as keen as a razor ; 
the shaft was bound with iron and wound with a 
green lace that ended in tassels, or buttons, of 
green. He saluted no one but looked about haught- 
ily and cried: "Where is the head of this com- 
pany? I wish to see him and speak with him." 
At this point our selection begins. It contains 
the whole account of the occurrences in Arthur's 
hall. 

The rest of the poem tells of the adventures of 
Gawain in the fulfilment of his promise : his search 
for the Green Chapel, his entertainment at a 
great castle, where his loyalty is tested thrice, and 
his meeting with the Green Knight on the morning 
of the next New Year's Day at the mysterious 
chapel. 



The story is clearly derived from a Celtic tale of 
the Other-world, and it possesses in no small degree 
that power of natural magic which Matthew Arnold 
noted as the most eminent characteristic of Celtic 
poetry. Three modern English versions of it 
are accessible, two by Miss Jessie L. Weston: a 
condensed prose version in Arthurian Romances 
Unrepresented in Malory, Vol. I ; and one in verse 
in Romance, Vision and Satire; and another prose 
version by E. J. B. Kirtlan. 

PEARL 

Pp. 46 fif. Pearl (121 2 lines), though entirely 
different in subject and tone and manner, is equally 
admirable. It seems to give the experience of a 
father who has lost a beloved little daughter, his 
"Pearl," and who, a few years later, falling asleep 
in his arbor, sees her in a vision, not as the help- 
less child he has lost, but as a radiant and beauti- 
ful young maiden, the Bride of the Lamb, and talks 
with her about the joys of her heavenly abode. 
Recently it has been argued with great learning 
and ingenuity that the poet is a cleric and can have 
had no child, that he is a man who, being inter- 
ested in the theological doctrine of grace, not 
v/orks, as the basis of rewards in heaven, attempted 
to illustrate and enforce the doctrine by an imagi- 
nary case of a baptized child dying in infancy and 
receiving in heaven rewards equal to those given 
to the greater saints. There can be no doubt that, 
whether cleric or not, the poet vv^as deeply versed 
in theology and believed ardently in the doctrine 
of grace, but no sufficient reason has been adduced 
for refusing to recognize the genuine personal 
tone of the poet's grief and love. That the child 
was not his own is reasonably clear from his re- 
mark that she was nearer to him than aunt or 
niece (line 233), and from the absence of the terms 
father and daughter in their conversation. But 
many a man has loved with great devotion a child 
not his own; Swinburne's charming poems (see 
p. 643 and the whole series entitled .4 Dark 
Month, written when the beloved child was 
away on a visit) may serve as a notable instance. 
That the bereaved heart of a lonely man here 
found consolation in the new and blessed doctrine 
of grace seems more likely than that a mere theolo- 
gian devised this beautiful poem as the framework 
for promulgating a favorite dogma. 

The technique of the poem is extremely elabo- 
rate. The stanza-form is intricate and difficult, 
requiring as it does two rhymes on one sound, four 
on another, and six on another, and demanding 
alliteration as an additional ornament. More- 



NOTES 



68;^ 



over, the stanzas are linked together by the repe- 
tition in the first line of each stanza of some 
phrase or word from the last line of the preceding 
stanza; and, finally, the stanzas are bound to- 
gether in groups of five by the possession of a re- 
frain which is carried, with slight variations, 
throughout the group. (By some oversight or 
error the fifteenth group contains six stanzas 
instead of five.) 

As the poem is too long to be presented in full, 
we have given a few stanzas outlining the story 
and illustrating the writer's power. Modern ver- 
sions of the whole have been published by Dr. S. 
Weir ilitchell, Miss Sophie Jewett, and Dr. G. H. 
Gerould. 

JOHN COWER 

CONFESSIO AmANTIS 

Pp. 51 fif. Gower is not a great poet, but 
through being contrasted with Chaucer he has had 
less than his due of recognition. Mr. Lowell, one 
of the most genial of critics, sought to enhance 
his praise of Chaucer by setting him off against 
a dark background and playfully celebrating his 
contemporary and friend Gower as superhumanly 
dull. But Chaucer needs no such setting ; we now 
know his age to have been one of extraordinary 
mental activity and poetical production, and he 
shines with undiminished brightness above all its 
light. And Gower, though no artist and unde- 
niably monotonous, is not altogether lacking in 
power of swift narrative and picturesque descrip- 
tion, as the story of Medea and Eson clearly proves. 

The simple fact in regard to Gower would seem 
to be that, though no poet in the high sense of the 
term, he was one of the best educated and most 
learned men of his time and one of the most 
thoughtful and intelligent. His Latin poems on 
social and political affairs are vigorous, intelligent 
and original. He also wrote in French a volume 
of social criticism called Le Miroir de VHomme 
(or, as it was called in Latin, Speculum M editantis) . 
But education and general intelligence do not 
make a man a poet; and Gower remained only 
a well-trained man of letters. 

In the fifteenth century, when literary taste was 
not exacting and men cared rather for material 
than for art, Gower was ranked as high as Chaucer. 
Nowadays, when we have learned that the sub- 
ject matter of story-tellers is universal and im- 
personal, we value only those writers who have art, 
and consequently we care little for Gower. 

The story here told is based principally on Ovid's 
Metamor piloses, VH, 164-293. Gower, however, 



tells the story freely; and 11. 4039-41 14, which 
are in the main original, .or at least not derived 
from Ovid, are by no means the least picturesque. 
There are some errors, but they seem due in large 
part to the fact that Gower had an incorrect manu- 
script of Ovid. Thus in 1. 3994, Crete is due to the 
reading Cretis or Creleis instead of Threces (1. 223) 
in Ovid; Eridian, 1. 4005, for Apidanus (1. 228), 
is doubtless also based on a corrupt form; as is 
likewise the Rede See, 1. 401 1 (cf. Ovid, 1. 267 : Et 
quas Oceani rejluum mare lavit harenas). 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

Pp. 56 ff. Many of the writers of English 
verse before Chaucer were educated and well- 
trained men. They had studied logic, rhetoric, 
and grammar in the schools, they were familiar 
with good examples of Latin literature, and they 
set a high value on accuracy of versification and of 
rhyming, as their verses prove. Such loose com- 
position, such careless rhymes, such impossible 
or irregular metres as we now see daily in the 
verses of ignorant versifiers are practically un- 
known in English verse before 1400. It is a great 
mistake to suppose that Chaucer or his predeces- 
sors were untrained men who wrote without 
reflection and without standards of composition. 
But although logical structure and rhetorical 
skill are elements in works of art, art requires also 
taste, imagination, creative ability; and com- 
paratively few of the predecessors of Chaucer 
had great poetic powers. 

Chaucer was not only a weU-trained and skilful 
man of letters, but also a great poet. Both his 
creative faculty and his artistic ability, however, 
seem to have developed comparatively late. 
The Book of the Duchess, written when he was 
nearly thirty, is a pleasant and skilful piece of 
work, but it is imitative, conventional, and lack- 
ing in individuality; and so far as we know, he 
produced nothing better than this until several 
years later. This slowness of development may 
have been due in part to his being too fully oc- 
cupied with his official duties in these early years 
to devote much time to composition or to reflec- 
tion on the aims and methods of art. We know 
too little of the details of his life to be able to say 
exactly when he obtained more leisure or came 
into contact with the literary world which gave 
him a new conception of poetry, but apparently 
both of these events occurred when he was between 
thirty and forty years of age. 

In 1373 and 1378 he was sent on oflicial business 
to Italy. Whether he had any knowledge of the 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



language or literature of Italy before his first 
visit to that country is uncertain. Certain it is 
that in some way, at some time, he acquired a 
knowledge of some of the works of Dante, Petrarch, 
and Boccaccio, the three great Italian writers 
with whom the great age of Italian literature 
began. AH three of these men had a richer, 
finer conception of the meaning and value of 
literature and were more powerful as thinkers 
and more skilful as artists than the French poets 
who up to this time had been Chaucer's models. 
After becoming acquainted with these new and 
stimulating masterpieces, Chaucer, for a time, 
translated and imitated them ; but the new poetic 
material with which they provided him was very 
far from constituting their chief value to him. 
He obviously began to reflect upon the differences 
between the old and the new, to consider questions 
of literary art — of narration, of description, of 
characterization, of background, of tone, of 
structure — with the result that he developed a 
thoroughly original manner of thinking and of 
writing, indebted, to be sure, to all his models, 
English, French, Latin and Italian, but none the 
less original, individual, thoroughly his own. 
The poems of his mature years are those upon 
which his fame rests. 

Troilus and Criseyde 

Pp. 56 ff. The story of Troilus and Cressida is 
one of the most famous love stories of literature. 
It does not appear in Homer's account of the siege 
of Troy but was developed by Boccaccio, an 
Italian writer of the fourteenth century, from 
slight hints in the Roman de Troye, by Benoit 
de Sainte-More, a French writer of the twelfth 
century, and the Historia Troiana of Guido delle 
Colonne, an Italian of the twelfth century who 
turned Benoit's French verse into Latin prose. 
Chaucer got the story from Boccaccio and greatly 
improved it by changing the characters of some 
of the actors and making the motives of action 
more psychological. Shakespeare derived the 
plot of his play Troilus and Cressida largely from 
Chaucer, but he introduced many changes of 
character and motive, and produced a cynical, 
unpleasant story very different from the piteous 
and beautiful tragedy told by Chaucer. 

Our first selection (p. 56) describes the first 
meeting of Troilus and Criseyde and his sudden 
love for her, in spite of all the sport he had pre- 
viously made of love and lovers. The second 
(p. 57) describes Criseyde's first sight of Troilus, 
after Pandarus — her uncle and Troilus' friend 



and confidant — had awakened her interest by 
telling her how desperately Prince Troilus, the 
best of all the Trojan knights except his brother 
Hector, had fallen in love with her. The third 
(p. 58) tells briefly and pathetically how she 
forsook Troilus for Diomede, the Greek, after 
she had been compelled by her father to leave 
Troy and join him in the camp of the besieging 
army. 

The Prologue to the Canterbury 

Tales 

Pp. 59 flf. The Canterbury Tales are a collection 
of tales which Chaucer represents as told by a 
group of men and women who, having met by 
chance in an inn in Southwark, made a pilgrimage 
together to the shrine of St. Thomas at Canter- 
bury. The Prologue tells when and how they 
met, and how, finding that they were aU going to 
the same place, they agreed to go together and to 
enliven their journey by telling tales as they rode 
along. At his own suggestion, the innkeeper, 
Harry Bailey by name, agreed to accompany 
them and to act as presiding officer and as judge 
of the merits of the tales. The teller of the best 
tale was to have a supper at the expense of the 
rest upon their return, and any one who refused 
to obey the orders of the presiding officer was to 
pay for all that the company spent on the journey. 

Chaucer tells us that there were twenty-nine, 
including himself and not counting the Host 
(or innkeeper). They came from various parts 
of England and represented almost every occupa- 
tion and station in life. The upper classes were 
represented by the Knight and his son the Squire, 
who were attended by a servant, the Yeoman. 
The church, in accordance with the large part it 
played in mediasval life, was predominant, with 
nine representatives : the Prioress, and her com- 
panions, the Nun and the Priest; the Monk, 
the Friar, the Pardoner, the Summoner, the 
Parson, and the Clerk (who had not yet obtained 
a benefice and was still stud3'ing at Oxford). 
Of the learned professions there were two repre- 
sentatives : the Doctor and the Sergeant-at-Law. 
From the country there were the Franklin (a 
large landowner), the Reeve (a sort of overseer 
of a large estate in Norfolk), the Miller, and a poor 
Plowman. From the city of London there were, 
besides Chaucer, who had recentl_v been Comptrol- 
ler of Customs for the post of London, a Merchant 
(or wholesale exporter), five tradesmen, a Cook, 
and a Manciple (steward of one of the organiza- 
tions of lawyers). From the west of England 



NOTES 



689 



there was a Shipman of Dartmouth (master of a 
sailing vessel and a rather disreputable character, 
though a good sailor) and a buxom, red-cheeked 
widow from Bath, skilful in weaving cloth and 
fond of gadding about. 

The intention at first was that each of these 
persons should tell four tales, two on the way to 
Canterbury and two on the way back; but 
Chaucer seems to have decided later that one 
each way would be enough ; and as a matter of 
fact he did not write enough tales to go once 
around. There are actually only twenty-four 
tales, and of these one is a second tale told by 
Chaucer himself after he had been stopped in the 
middle of his first tale by the Host's declaration 
that it was too dull, and another is an account 
of the tricks of an Alchemist who had overtaken 
them on the journey, given by his servant after 
the Alchemist had fled in shame at the revelations 
of his swindling methods. 

Chaucer also intended to tell how each tale led 
to the next and to report the conversations and 
discussions which arose. These bits between 
the tales are among the liveliest and most inter- 
esting parts of Chaucer's work ; but as he did not 
write all the tales necessary, so also he did not 
fill in all the bits that should have come between. 
No part of the work, however, is more artistic 
than these and the descriptions of the pilgrims 
which Chaucer gives in the Prologue. They 
have never been surpassed in humor or in brilliance 
of characterization. 

P. 59. 1. 8. In 1. I Chaucer tells us that April 
had already begun. During April the sun is in 
the sign Aries until the nth and in Taurus the 
rest of the month. Line 8 therefore means that 
it is now after April nth. In fact, we learn from 
a later passage that the pilgrims met on the even- 
ing of April i6th. 

1. 17. Thomas a Becket, at one time Chancellor 
of Henry II, upon being made Archbishop of 
Canterbury resisted the efforts of Henry to deprive 
the church courts of some of the powers they had 
possessed. In the quarrel that ensued, four of 
Henry's knights rode to Canterbury and murdered 
Thomas in the Cathedral (in 1170). Although 
Henry had not ordered the murder, he was held 
responsible for it, and Thomas was worshipped 
as a saint. His tomb at Canterburj'^ became the 
most famous shrine in England and for three 
hundred and fifty years was visited by pilgrims 
from all parts of the country, who brought gifts of 
gold and jewels in return for the saint's services to 
them. When the shrine was destroyed by Henry 
Vm, cart-loads of treasures were taken away. 



11. 48 ff. When the Knight was not fighting 
for his lord, he sought service elsewhere. His 
campaigns were all against the heathen and fall 
into three groups : one in the orient (Alisaundre, 
Lyeys, Satalye, Tramissene, Turkeye), one against 
the Moors (Algesir in Granada, and Belmarye in 
northern Africa) , and one on the borders of Russia 
and Prussia (Ruce, Pruce, Lettow). His battles 
ranged in time from 1344 to the date of the pil- 
grimage (see 1. 77). The Grand Master of the 
Knights of the Teutonic Order in Prussia was 
famous for his wisdom, his skill in war, and his 
courtesy. 

P. 60. 11. 85-6. The expedition here referred to 
was doubtless that under Bishop Henry of Norwich 
in 1383. 

I. 115. Compare the images which Louis XI 
wore in his hat, in Quentin Durward. 

II. 118 ff. The nunnery over which the Prioress 
presided was probably in the main a finishing 
school for young ladies of the upper classes. 
Hence her manners are those prescribed in the 
books of etiquette of the day. 

I. 120. Most ladies of rank swore pretty 
vigorously in ancient times; cf. what Hotspur 
says to his wife in I Henry IV, III, i, 252-261, 
and Clarke's note on the strong oaths of Queen 
Elizabeth. By Seint Loy was a very mild oath, 
quite in keeping with the delicate manners of the 
Prioress. 

II. 124-6. The French of Stratford-atte-Bowe 
(a nunnery near London) was boarding-school 
French. 

1. 146. Nuns were so fond of little dogs that it 
was necessary to prohibit them from bringing 
them into the church. 

P. 61. 1. 162. Amor vincit omnia (Love con- 
quers all things) is not a very appropriate motto 
for a nun, unless "Love" is taken in a spiritual 
sense. 

I. 164. Presles three is probably wrong. Only 
one is mentioned elsewhere; three would make 
the number of pilgrims 31, instead of 29 (see 1. 24), 
and it is strange that Chaucer does not here 
describe the Nun and the Priest, as he does the 
other pilgrims. Perhaps he left the passage 
incomplete, intending later to compose descrip- 
tions of these characters. 

II. 165 ff. Many monasteries of Benedictine 
monks had become very wealthy through the 
increase in value of the lands given them at their 
foundation and later. Consequently the heads and 
other officials often needed to be, and became, much 
engrossed in business and scarcely distinguish- 
able in manners and ideas from nobles and other 



690 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



great landholders. An interesting account of all 
this is given in Carlyle's Past and Present. The 
rule of St. Benedict, the founder of the order 
(Seint Benelt, 1. 173), W3,s revised often; once by 
St. Maurus (1. 173), who lived some fifty years 
later and introduced the Benedictine order into 
France. The Austin of 11. 187-8 was probably 
that St. Augustine who in 596 brought Christian- 
ity from Rome to England; he was a Benedictine 
monk. He should not be confused with St. 
Augustine, Bishop of Hippo (fourth century), or 
with the founder of the Augustinian order of 
friars (see footnote on 1. 210). The worldliness 
of the monks was supposed to be sho^vn by their 
fondness for sports. Pricking (1. 191) m^eans 
tracking a hare by its footprints. 

11. 208 ff . The orders of friars were established 
in the thirteenth century to carry religion among 
the common people, as the Salvation Army of 
our own day was, and the methods of work of the 
two organizations have a few points of resemblance. 
To prevent such worldliness as had grown up 
among the monks, it was ordered that neither 
the individual friar nor the house to which he 
belonged could hold property. They were to be 
like the disciples who went out to convert the world 
after the death of Christ. They did a great work, 
and became influential. Then ambitious men 
entered the order and used it to advance their 
personal interests, with the result that in Chaucer's 
day need was felt within the Church for reforming 
the worldliness of the friars. 

P. 62. 11. 285 ff. In the Middle Ages education 
was the best means for an able man who lacked 
wealth and social influence to attain eminence 
and power. The Church afforded great oppor- 
tunities for many, and many entered the service 
of the government or of powerful nobles. All 
educated men were called clerks, whether they 
went into the service of the Church or not. The 
Clerk of this poem is a tj'pe of the devout scholar ; 
he was devoted to the Church and to the philos- 
ophy of Aristotle. 

P. 63. U. 331 ff. A franklin is a landholder of 
free, but not of noble birth. This Franklin was 
rich and hospitable, but not a man of education 
or culture. 

11. 388 ff. The Shipman, though an able 
sailor, was, like most of his craft at that time, 
rather disreputable — dishonest and little better 
than a pirate. 

P. 67. 11. 725 ff. Chaucer's excuse for some of 
the improper stories he tells is one of the earliest 
bits of social or moral criticism of literature in 
English. It serves here two purposes : it carries 



on the literary device that this was a real pil- 
grimage ; and it thereby enables Chaucer to shift 
responsibility for the improper tales from himself 
to the characters — who are of course in reality 
his ovm creations. 

A Roundel 

P. 69. This roundel is sung by the birds of 
Chaucer's Parlement of Foules (Assembly of Birds) 
just before they fly away with the mates they have 
chosen for the ensuing year. The roundel is an 
elaborate form of light verse {vers de societc) which 
originated in France and was much cultivated in 
the Middle Ages. It and the other forms similar 
to it died out in the fifteenth century but were 
revived in the nineteenth. Compare the struc- 
ture of this roundel with that of the three by 
Swinburne, p. 643. 

Balade de Bon Conseyl 

The balade is also a conventional form of 
verse with much the sam.e history as the roundel. 
There should always be three stanzas (or a multi- 
ple of three) with the same rhymes in the same 
order, and each stanza should close with the same 
line, called the "refrain." Usually there is an 
additional stanza, called "I'envoi" (or "the 
envoy"), which contains an address to the person 
for whom it was written. Chaucer's balades 
have a different structure from those of most 
later writers ; cf. Rossetti's translation of Villon's 
Balade of Dead Ladies, p. 629. 

The CojiPLEiNT of Chaucer to his 
Empty Purse 

This is also in form a balade with an envoy. 
It was addressed to Henry IV a few days after his 
accession to the throne and was immediately suc- 
cessful in procuring a pension for the aged poet. 
How serious was Chaucer's need it is hard to say, 
in view of the humorous tone of his Complaint. 

Note the three claims vs'hich Henry has to the 
throne, as expressed in U. 22, 23. 

A Treatise on the Astrolabe 

P. 70. An astrolabe (or astrolabie) is a simple 
instrument for taking rough obser\-ations of the 
positions of the heavenly bodies. Chaucer, who 
was much interested in astrononty and astrology, 
compiled a treatise on the use of this instrument 
for little Louis, who had shown ability and interest 



NOTES 



691 



in mathematics. The Prologue to this treatise 
is the only bit of prose we have from Chaucer 
except certain translations. 

JOHN DE TREVISA 
Higden's Polychronicon 

p. 71. About the middle of the fourteenth cen- 
tury, Ralph Higden, a ponk of the city of Chester, 
wrote in Latin a history of the world, with spe- 
cial regard to England, entitled Polychronicon. 
Thirty-five or forty years Ititer John de Trevisa, 
of Cornwall, wishing to make this book accessible 
to those who could not read Latin, translated it 
into English. He included comments and addi- 
tions of his own and to them he prefixed his 
name. 

The section here given is a brief extract from the 
remarks of Higden and Trevisa on the languages 
spoken in England. These remarks show that 
although there was no scientific study of languages 
in the fourteenth century, educated men thought 
about the linguistic situation and had very sensi- 
ble ideas concerning it. Trevisa's statements in 
regard to the change that occurred about the end 
of the first half of the century are very important 
for the history of literature in English (see above, 
p. 677). The two reformers of teaching whom 
Trevisa mentions seem from their names to have 
been Comishmen. 



THE END OF THE MIDDLE 

AGES 

HOCCLEVE AND L YD GATE 

Pp. 72 ff. Hoccleve (p. 72) and L\^dgate (p. 73) 
are of historical interest only. Each professed 
himself a follower and devoted pupil of Chaucer's, 
and there can be no doubt of their affection and 
admiration, but both singularly failed to reproduce 
any of his characteristic qualities. Neither seems 
to have understood his versification or to have 
had the ability to adapt it to the language of their 
time. Chaucer's verse, as everybody now knows, is 
as smooth and musical as the best verse of any age, 
if the final vowels which were pronounced in his 
speech are sounded in his verse. Hoccleve and 
Lydgate knew that final c was sometimes sounded, 
but in their own speech apparently sounded it 
much less often than Chaucer, and consequently, 
when they read his verse with their own pro- 



nunciation, it sounded to them as rough and un- 
certain as their own. 

There must have been very great and sudden 
changes in the pronunciation of English during 
Chaucer's lifetime, especially in regard to sound- 
ing final e. He and Gower apparently spoke and 
wrote the more conservative speech of the upper 
classes. The younger generation, to which Hoc- 
cleve and Lydgate belonged, apparently spoke 
very differently. This may have been due to the 
sudden rise in social position of a vast multitude 
of people in consequence of the general political 
and social movements of the age. Such people 
would naturally try to acquire the pronunciation 
of the new class into which they had risen, but 
because of the multitude of them their owm earlier 
habits of speech could not fail to exercise some 
influence upon standard English. 

But it is clear also that neither Hoccleve nor 
Lydgate was possessed of much intellectual fine- 
ness or artistic sensibility. Neither of them imder- 
stood the spirit and aims of Chaucer's work. To 
them, and, sad to relate, to most men for a century 
to come, Chaucer's merits were not those of a 
great artist, a true poet, but merely those of a 
voluminous writer of interesting stories and songs. 
Doubtless they enjoyed his work more than the}' 
did Gower's, but he and Gower seemed to them 
to belong essentially to the same class of writers. 
It is not strange, therefore, that Hawes and Skel- 
ton and other writers of the age of Henr}- \TI and 
Henry VHI praised Chaucer and Gower and 
Lydgate in the same breath and with the same 
note of praise. The matter was all they could 
understand or appreciate; and Gower and Lyd- 
gate had as much material as Chaucer, if not 
more. In our own day the sudden addition to the 
reading pubhc of a multitude of readers of uncul- 
tivated minds and undeveloped taste has resulted 
in a somewhat similar state of affairs. The success 
of a book — that is, of one of "the best sellers" 
— depends not upon its artistic qualities or its 
power and beauty of thought, but solely upon its 
presentation of the sort of material liked by the 
general public. Now, as in the fifteenth century, 
it is not even necessarj^ that the material should 
be novel ; the public swallows with avidity to-day 
absolutely the same story that it swallowed yester- 
da3^ provided the names of the hero and the 
heroine are changed. A century or two hence 
critics will find it as hard to account for the great 
vogue of some of our popular novels as we find it 
to account for the failure of the men of the fifteenth 
century to distinguish Chaucer from Gower and 
Lj'dgate. 



692 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



De Regimine Principum 

Pp. 72 f. Hoccleve's De Regimine Principum 
is a treatise on the duties of princes, addressed to 
Prince Henry, Shakespeare's Prince Hal. It has 
a Prologue of 2016 lines, telling how he came to 
write the poem, and an Address to the Prince of 
147 lines (11. 2oi'j-zi(>2>) • The Prologue contains 
much information about Hoccleve's misspent 
youth and his poverty, and incidentally throws 
much light on the life of the time. For nearly 
twenty-four years, he tells us, he had been a 
writer in one of the government offices, that of 
the Privy Seal. Now his back is bent and he has 
pains in "every vein and place of his body" from 
so much writing ; he is married and his income is 
only four pounds a year, besides an annuity of 
twenty marks (£13 6^. 8i.), which is hardly ever 
paid. An old and wise beggar, who professes to 
be able to help him, advises him to write a book 
and present it to the Prince in the hope of getting 
a more lucrative position. The dialogue between 
Hoccleve and the beggar, which forms the greater 
part of the Prologue, is very interesting, as has 
just been said. 

Hoccleve's devotion to Chaucer cannot be 
doubted; he neglects no opportunity to praise 
him. The first of the three passages given in our 
selection (U. 1961-1974) is from the Prologue; the 
second (11. 2077-2107), from the Address to the 
Prince. In both cases Hoccleve is lamenting his 
own lack of skill as a writer, and this naturally sug- 
gests to him the mention of his beloved master, 
the "flower of eloquence." The third passage 
(11. 4978-4998) occurs in the treatise itself, when 
the author has just urged Prince Henry not to 
hold councils on holy days. Lines 4992-4998 refer 
to the portrait of Chaucer which Hoccleve caused 
to be inserted in the Manuscript at this point. 
We are not told who the artist was, but the like- 
ness was probably a good one. It is reproduced 
in many modern books : see especially Garnett 
and Gosse, Engl. Lit. (ill. ed.), Vol. I, p. 140 (in 
color) ; Skeat's Oxford Chaucer, Vol. I, front. ; 
Green's Short Hist, of the Engl. People, Vol. I, 
p. 419 ; Saunders, Chajicer's Canterbury Tales, 
etc. 

The Story of Thebes 

Pp. 73 f. In the Prologue to the Story of 
Thebes Lydgate represents himself as having 
made a pilgrimage alone to Canterbury in grati- 
tude for his recovery from illness. Upon reaching 
the inn, he finds there all Chaucer's Canterbury 
pilgrims and is invited by the Host to join them 



and ride home with them the next day. He 
accepts the invitation, and the next morning, 
before they have gone a bow-shot from the city, 
the Host calls upon him for a tale. The story of 
the Siege of Thebes is the story he tells. As 
Lydgate was only thirty years old when Chaucer 
died, and as he gives his age as "nigh fifty" when 
he meets the Canterbury pilgrims, it is obvious 
that we have here, not the account of a real meet- 
ing, but merely a literary device to introduce his 
story. 

The story itself is more than twice as long as 
the Knight's Tale. It is concerned with the strife 
between Eteocles and Polynices (Polymyte is the 
form in Lydgate), the sons of (Edipus and Jocasta, 
for the kingdom of Thebes — the subject of 
Jiischylus ' great tragedy. The Seven against Thebes ; 
but Lydgate's poem is not derived from the Greek 
play, which of course was unknown to him, but 
from an Old French prose romance. 

The situation in our selection is as follows: 
Tydeus, the friend of Polynices, has come to 
Thebes with a message to Eteocles from Poly- 
nices demanding that he fulfil his promise of giving 
up the kingdom to Polynices after reigning for one 
year. Eteocles has refused, and Tydeus, after 
declaring that God will punish him for his unfaith- 
fulness, has left Thebes alone on his journe}^ back 
to Polynices at Argos. He has scarcelj'' left the 
palace when Eteocles, in furious wrath, orders his 
Chief Constable with fifty chosen knights to pur- 
sue him and slay him. They steal out secretly 
and lie in ambush for him, as our selection tells. 

In ]. 1 165, squar seems irreconcilable with 
round; I presume that it either is a mistake for 
swar (heavy) or has, by confusion, taken on the 
meaning of that word. 

THE BALLADS 

Pp. 74 ff. The Ballads here given are specimens 
of a kind of literature which has attracted a great 
deal of attention and aroused a great deal of 
controversy in modern times. Composed during 
the Middle Ages for the common people, they 
attracted scarcely any attention from cultivated 
men and played little part in literature until the 
second half of the eighteenth century. Sir 
Philip Sidney knew and loved "the old song of 
Percy and Douglas," Shakespeare and some of the 
other dramatists quoted brief snatches of them 
in certain of their plays, and Addison devoted a 
critique in the Spectator to one of the best of them ; 
but they had no general literary standing until 
some men of the eighteenth century, sick of the 



NOTES 



693 



conventionalities and prettinesses of the poetry 
of their day, turned for relief to the rude vigor and 
simplicity of these old poems. The book most 
influential in this introduction of them to modern 
readers was Bishop Percy's Reliqiies of Ancient 
English Poetry, published in 1765. 

But, although obscure until the time of the 
Romantic Movement, the ballads, as has been 
said, were composed centuries before that time. 
Even approximate dates of composition can be 
set for very few of them, for they were not written 
down but only preserved in memory and trans- 
mitted orally through the centuries, and con- 
sequently in most cases no certain conclusions as 
to their dates can be drawn from the forms of the 
language in which they are expressed. But we 
know that some of those that have come down to 
us belong to the fifteenth, the fourteenth, and 
even the thirteenth century. Perhaps the 
earliest of those printed here is St. Stephen and 
Herod (p. 84), one of the most remarkable for a 
vivid simplicity which no art could improve. 
This and Sir Patrick Spens, by some curious chance, 
have precisely the artistic qualities which we look 
for in the best modern verse ; the excellences of 
some of the others, such as the Battle of Otterbiirn 
and Captain Car, though perhaps as great in their 
way, belong to an ideal of art entirely different 
from that of the modern individualistic, conscious 
artist. 

Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 

Pp. 74 ff. Between 1. 8 and 1. 9 a number of 
verses have been lost. Apparently they told that 
Robin had a dream in which he was bound and 
beaten by two yeomen, who also took away his 
bow. From the later development of the story 
we learn that these are the Sheriff of Nottingham 
and Sir Guy of Gisborne. It does not appear 
from anything in the ballad that Robin recog- 
nized his foes, but he has at least been warned 
that there are two of them and he vows vengeance 
upon them. The story is told in the vivid, dis- 
connected way characteristic of ballads and much 
is left to the imagination of the hearer. Thus we 
are not told how Robin knows that Little John 
has been captured by the Sheriff. He goes to 
Barnesdale to see how his men are faring (st. 
45) ; perhaps he sees Little John bound and recog- 
nizes him at a distance. 

Ballads were sung (usually to the accompani- 
ment of a fiddle or other stringed instrument) ; 
sec the quotation from Sir Philip Sidney in the 
notes on The Battle of Otterburn. The tunes of 

AE 



many of them are given in Chappell's Popular 
Music of the Olden Time. 

The Battle of Otterbiirn 

Pp. 77 ff. The words of Sir Philip Sidney, who 
knew both good fighting and good poetry, have 
been quoted a hundred times, but must be quoted 
again: "Certainly I must confess my own bar- 
barousness. I never heard the old song of Percy 
and Douglas that I found not my heart moved 
more than with a trumpet ; and yet it is sung by 
some blind crowder (fiddler), with no rougher 
voice than rude style: which being so evil ap- 
parreled in the dust and cobwebs of that uncivil 
age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous 
eloquence of Pindar ! " Sidney's praise is justified, 
whether he had in mind The Hunting of the Cheviot 
or the older poem. The Battle of Otterburn. 

Both of these famous ballads are founded on an 
actual historical event, the battle of Otterburn, 
which was fought between the English and the 
Scots on Wednesday, August 19, 1388. A de- 
tailed and admiring account of the real battle 
was given by the French chronicler Froissart and 
may be read either in Johnes's translation, Vol. Ill, 
Chaps. 126-128, or in the older translation of Lord 
Berners, Globe ed., pp. 370-380. Neither of the 
ballads is accurate historically, and curiously 
enough each entirely neglects the picturesque 
motive which was the real occasion of the battle, 
that is, Percy's vow to recover his pennon, which 
Douglas had captured a few days earlier in a 
combat before Newcastle. As we are studying 
the ballad not as history but as poetry, we need not 
discuss the history or the geography, further than 
to note that events are thoroughly distorted to the 
advantage of the English. Douglas really had 
only 300 lancers and 2000 other soldiers ; Percy 
had 600 lancers and 8000 foot soldiers. Both 
Percy and Douglas were young men. "The 
chivalrous trait in st. 17 and that in the charac- 
teristic passage stt. 36-44," says Professor Child, 
"are peculiar to this transcendently heroic ballad." 
On stt. 43 and 49, he remarks that archers really 
had no part in this fight. 

Sir Patrick Spens 

Pp. 80 f. Whether this tragic ballad had any 
historical event as its basis is unknown and unim- 
portant. It is one of the finest examples of 
Scottish balladry ; and if its suppressions of 
details be due to accident, this is one case in 



694 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



which the half of the story is, as Professor Child 
says, better than the whole. 

Captain Car, or Edom o Gordon 

Pp. 81 f . The reason for the double title of this 
ballad is that in some versions the villain is not 
Captain Car but Edom o Gordon (that is, Adam 
of Gordon). There was, in fact, in Scotland in the 
days of Mary Queen of Scots an able and gallant 
soldier Adam Gordon, whose fame is said to have 
been destroyed by the infamous deed of his man. 
Captain Ker. He sent his soldiers under the 
leadership of Captain Ker to the castle of Towie, 
demanding the surrender of the castle in the 
queen's name. In the absence of her lord, the 
lady of the castle refused, and "the soldiers being 
impatient, by command of their leader. Captain 
Ker, fire was, put to the house, wherein she and 
the number of twenty-seven persons were cruelly 
burnt to the death." According to another 
account, nearly contemporary, Gordon himself 
was the inhuman leader. ±\t all events, whether 
for his own deed or for failing to punish Ker, he 
was denounced and execrated by his contem- 
poraries. 

Lines 5-8 are a chorus or refrain. The tune 
of this ballad is given in Chappell's Popular Music 
of the Olden Time, old ed., p. 226, new ed., I, 74. 
"" P. 82. Stanza 20 is not in this version of the 
ballad, but it is traditional. John Hamelton, 
of St. 22, is a servant, as 1. 90 indicates. 

Lord Randal 

P. 83. This is not an historical ballad. Its 
origin lies in folk lore. Stories and ballads on this 
theme are very ancient and almost worldwide in 
their distribution, and versions of the ballad 
itself are still sung in parts of the United States. 
The eels of st. 3 are of course snakes. 

Hind Horn 

Pp. 83 f. This ballad is not derived from the 
romance of King Horn (p. 9), but is a variant of 
the same story. The refrain, which is sung be- 
tween the lines, is very different in the other ver- 
sions of this ballad, of which there are many. 
Most refrains are, like this, entirely meaningless ; 
one of the most interesting is a Scottish version : 

Near Edinburgh was a young son born. 

Hey lilelu an a how low Ian 
An his name it was called young Hyn Horn. 

An it's hey down down deedle aire. 



St. Stephen and Herod 

P. 84. This is of course a traditional distortion 
of the story of St. Stephen, for which there is no 
warrant in sacred or secular history. But a 
somewhat similar story is told of Judas in the 
apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus and the incident 
of the crowing of the cock is found in tales in many 
languages The picturesque ignorance of the 
Bible involved in placing the stoning of Stephen 
on the day after the birth of Christ is characteris- 
tic of the common folk of the Middle Ages. All 
that they knew was that in the Church calendar 
St. Stephen's day is the next after Christmas. 

1. 2. befalle, befits; subjunctive for indicative. 

1. 3. boris hed, the Christmas dish of old Eng- 
land, brought into the hall in procession with the 
singing of carols. 

SIR THOMAS MALORY 

MORTE DaRTHUR 

Pp. 84 ff. The Morte Darthur of Sir Thomas 
Malory has long been famous, not only as the 
source of most of the modern poems about King 
Arthur and his Knights, but also as one of the 
most interesting books in any language. It has 
recently been shown by Professor Kittredge that 
Sir Thomas was not, as some have supposed, a 
priest, but, as the colophon of his book tells us, a 
soldier, with just such a career as one would wish 
for the compiler of such a volume. He was 
attached to the train of the famous Richard 
Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, and perhaps was 
brought up in his service. As Professor Kit- 
tredge says, "No better school for the future 
author of the Morte Darthur can be imagined than 
a personal acquaintance with that Englishman 
whom all Europe recognized as embodjnng the 
knightly ideal of the age." The Emperor 
Sigismund, we are informed on excellent authoritj% 
said to Henry V, "that no prince Cristen for 
wisdom, norture, and manhode, hadde such 
another knyght as he had of tlierle Warrewyk; 
addyng thereto that if al curtesye were lost, yet 
myght hit be founde ageyn in hym ; and so ever 
after by the emperours auctorite he was called 
the 'Fadre of Curteisy. '" 

Sir Thomas derived his materials from old 
romances, principally in French, which he at- 
tempted to condense and reduce to order. His 
style, though it may have been affected to some 
extent by his originals, is essentially his own. Its 
most striking excellence is its diction, which is 



NOTES 



695 



invariably picturesque and fresh, and this un- 
doubtedl}' must be ascribed to him. The syntax, 
though sometimes faulty, has almost always a 
certain naive charm. On the whole, regarding 
both matter and manner, one can hardly refuse 
assent to Caxton when he saj's, "But thystorye 
{i.e., the history) of the sayd Arthur is so gloryous 
and shynyng, that he is stalled in the fyrst place 
of the moost noble, beste, and worthyest of the 
Cristen men." With this version of the death of 
King Arthur the student should read Layamon's 
version (p. 5) and Tennyson's (p. 528). 

WILLIAM CAXTON 
Preface to the Booke of Eneydos 

P. 86. William Caxton, the first English 
printer, was born in Kent about 1422. After 
serving his apprenticeship in London with the 
merchant Robert Lange, who became Lord 
INIayor, he went to Bruges and so prospered that 
in 1462 he was Governor of the guild of English 
ISIerchant Adventurers there. In 1469 he seems 
to have given up his business and entered the 
service of the Duchess Margaret of Burgundy, 
sister of Edward lY of England. For her he 
began in that year a translation into English 
of a French prose romance called Le Recueil des 
Histoires de Troyes. So manj^ of those who heard 
of this translation wished to have a copy of it that 
he learned the new art of printing in order to 
provide enough copies. He s&ys in the Epilogue 
to the Third Book : "And for as moche as in the 
wryting of the same ray penne is worn, vayn 
hand wery and not stedfast, min eyen dimmed 
with over moche lokyng on the whit paper, and 
ray corage not so prone and redy to laboure as 
hit hath ben, and that age crepeth on me dayly 
and febleth all the bodye; and also because I 
have promysid to dyverce gentilmen and to my 
frendes to address to hem as hastely as I m^^ght 
this sayd book; therfor I have pract\'sed and 
lerned at my grete charge and dispense to ordeyne 
this sayd book in prynte after the manner and 
forme as ye may here see ; and is not wreton with 
penne and ynke as other bokes ben, to thende 
that every man may have them attones (at once) ; 
for all the bookes of this storye named the Reciile 
of the Historyes of Troyes, thus enpryntid as ye 
here see, were begonne in oon day and also 
fynyshid in oon day." 

Whether he learned printing in Cologne, where 
he finished his translation in September, 147 1, or 
in Bruges, he began to print in Bruges in partner- 



ship with Colard Mansion and produced, besides 
the Troy Book, a translation called The Game and 
Play of the Chess Moralized. In 1476 he removed 
to Lcmdon and set up a press in Westminster 
Abbey. Such was his diligence that he trans- 
lated, before his death in 149 1, twenty large folio 
volumes (4900 pages) and printed nearly one 
hundred volumes (over 18000 pages). 

With the exception of his continuation of 
Higden's Polychronicon (see p. 71), his original 
writings are confined to the prefaces, epilogues, 
etc., which he supplied to several of his publica- 
tions. These are very interesting, both for their 
intrinsic value and for the charming garrulity 
of his style. The passage here chosen is from his 
preface to his translation of a French version of 
the story of ./Eneas. What he tells us of his 
difficulty in determining what sort of English to 
use is a classic in the history of the language 
(compare the passage given above from Trevisa, 
p. 71). I have tried to make it easier to read by 
breaking up into shorter lengths his rambling 
statements, — they can hardly be called sentences, 
— but I somewhat fear that, in so doing, a part, 
at least, of their quaint charm may have been 
sacrificed. 

STEPHEN HAWES 
The Pastime of Pleasure 

Pp. 86 f. The main stream of English poetry 
in the fifteenth century was in name and claim 
Chaucerian, but in reality it showed rather the 
influence of Lydgate. With the exception of the 
Scottish Chaucerians, not represented in this 
volume, the later men were insensible to those 
qualities of the master which make him significant 
not for the Middle Ages onl}' but for all time. The 
literary forms and the style which attracted them 
and which they most frequentl}^ try to reproduce 
are those which Chaucer himself in the course of 
his marvelous artistic development outgrew and 
abandoned. They imitate The Bake of the Diich- 
esse, The Prologue to the Legende of Goode Women, 
The Parlemenl of Foiiles, and above all the Roman 
de la Rose or the translation of it. Allegory is the 
chosen form, abstractions are the favorite per- 
sonages; the ancient conventional machinery of 
spring mornings and grassy arbors and dreams and 
troups of men and fair women is used again and 
again, though all its parts have become loose and 
worn with use and age and creak audibly at every 
movement. To all this they add a pretentious 
diction that smells of schools and musty Latinity. 
The flowers that deck their fields are withered 



696 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



blossoms that they have picked up and painted 
and tied to the bare and hfeless stalks. Gaudy 
they are, but odorless, lifeless, and obviously 
painted. 

This outworn tradition was preserved in the 
beginning of the new age by one man of some note, 
Stephen Hawes, who regarded himself as the only 
faithful votary of true poetry in his age. His 
most important poem is an elaborate aUegory in 
the form of a romance of chivalry. The full title 
of it is significant: The Pastime of Pleasure; or 
the History of Graunde Amour and La Bell Piicell; 
conteining the knowledge of the seven Sciences and 
the course of mans life in this worlde. AU this is 
set forth in a series of incidents in which the hero, 
Graunde Amour (Love of Knowledge) falls in love 
with and wins La BeU Pucell (the beautiful maiden. 
Knowledge). Our extract gives a fair idea of the 
method and merits of the poem. After the mar- 
riage, Graunde Amour lives happily with his bride 
for many years; then, summoned by Old Age 
and Death, he dies and is buried, his epitaph being 
written by Remembrance. 

The use of chivalric romance as the form of the 
aUegory is both a link with the world that was 
passing away and Hawes's sole original contribution 
to the development of poetry. Even in Chaucer's 
day the spirit which had informed and vitalized 
chivalry as a social system was giving way before 
the new methods of warfare and the rising powers 
of commerce and industry; but the system re- 
mained m.uch longer and the ideals were cherished 
with an almost fanatic zeal by many lovers of 
ancient forms of beauty. Malory's Morte Darthur 
— an unallegorical presentation of chivalry — 
was published shortly before Hawes wrote. 
And nearly a century later, Edmund Spenser found 
no form so suitable for the embodiment of his 
allegory of the moral virtues as the persons and 
incidents of chivalric romance. 

JOHN SKELTON 

Pp. 87 f. Skelton was the bitterest satirist 
of his time. His learning, which was of the old 
type, was very considerable, and his fondness for 
displaying it is thoroughly characteristic. He 
wrote verses on all sorts of subjects, but it is as a 
satirist of Cardinal Wolsey that he is best remem- 
bered. The language used in these satires is 
vituperative and often obscene, and the ideas are 
sometimes expressed with such obscurity that we 
who are ignorant of the petty details of court 
intrigue in those days arc unable to disco\-er their 
meaning. A brief specimen of his satirical verse 



at its cleanest and clearest is given in the short 
extract from Colyn Cloute (p. 88). 

The Boke of Phyllyp Sparowe (p. 87) was written 
for a young girl, Jane Scroupe, whose pet sparrow 
had been killed by a cat. The poem contains 
1267 lines, not counting the additions (of 115 
Hnes) in which he defends himself for having 
written as he did. The first 844 lines are sup- 
posed to be spoken by Jane; they are largely in 
the form of a dirge, with sentences and words in- 
terspersed from the Latin service for the dead. 
Some devout persons took offence at this, but 
Skelton explains that he meant no harm. 

THE NUTBROWNE MAIDE 

Pp. 88 ff. This is curiously modern in versifica- 
tion, in language and in tone. One would like to 
know who was the author — to what class of society 
he belonged, what education and experience of 
life were his, and whether he ever wrote anything 
else. The existence of such isolated originality 
as is shown in this poem, in The Owl and the 
Nightingale, in some of the Early Tudor lyrics, 
and a few other ancient poems, makes one slow to 
believe that our remote ancestors were less capa- 
ble of excellence in literature than we are, and 
confirms the view that the variation in the number 
of good writers in different periods is due, not so 
much to differences in intellectual equipment, as 
to variation in the interests that attract the 
attention of different periods. 

The poem was intended for recitation as a 
dialogue. The object is to set forth the manner in 
which a loving woman would overcome all ob- 
stacles separating her from her lover. It ma}^ be 
held that the attitude expressed in U. 151-156 is, 
after the mediaeval fashion, somewhat exagger- 
ated. Professor Skeat thought the author was a 
woman; but the last stanza, especially 1. 177, 
seems against this view, and the whole concep- 
tion of woman's love seems rather that of a man 
(cf. Mrs. Browning's Man's Requirements) . 

EARLY TUDOR LYRICS 

Pp. 92 ff. That Lyrics were written in great 
numbers before the influence of Ital}' seriously 
aifected English poetry in the sixteenth century is 
well known, but most historians of English litera- 
ture entirely neglect these Ij-rics and speak as if 
England owed all her wealth of song in the age of 
Elizabeth to Italian influence. That there was 
much imitation of sonnet and madrigal and other 
Italian forms of lyric poetry is beyond ques- 



NOTES 



697 



tion, but in many of the most charming of the 
lyrics of the latter part of the century one 
hears, I think, the same notes and discovers the 
same poetic method that had marked English 
lyrics at the beginning of the century and for ages 
before. Only a few specimens of these " native 
wood- notes wild " are given here, but tliey will 
serve to enforce what has just been said. One of 
them, it wiU be remarked, is curiously unlike the 
rest and curiously modern. In both tone and 
poetic method the love song : 

LuUy. lulle}', lulley, lulley ! 

The fawcon hath born my make away ! (p. 94) 

smacks, not of the Middle Ages, but of that inter- 
esting nineteenth century imitation of medieval- 
ism associated with the Pre-Raphaelite Movement. 

Christmas Carols 

P. 93. I, 1. 36. Some such word as to or for 
seems needed for the metre before the ( = thee). 

II. The refrain seems to represent a playful 
conversation between the Mother and the Babe. 
The Mother saj's, "What are you seeking, O little 
son?" The Babe replies, "O sweetest Mother, 
kiss-kiss!" The question is repeated; and the 
Babe replies, "Give me the kisses of approval." 
I take ba-ha and da-da to be the onlj^ remarks 
really made by the Babe, the rest of his speeches 
being the Mother's interpretation of this babble. 
Ba-ba and da-da are treated as Latin imperatives, 
the latter being taken from the actual imperative 
of do, and the former, as my friends Professors Hale 
and Beeson suggest, being based on the obsolete 
Enghsh verb ba (meaning "kiss"). 

CoN\aviAL Songs 

P. 94. II. The exclamations in this song are 
mere convivial outcries, having probably no very 
definite meaning. Sir James Murray says, how- 
ever, that "Tyrll on the bery" means "Pass round 
the wine." 



THE BEGINNING OF THE 
RENAISS.\NCE 

SIR THOAIAS MORE 
A Dialogue 

Pp. 95 f. Sir Thomas More is one of the most 
striking and charming figures in the brilliant court 



of Henry VIII, and is known to all students of 
literature as the author of Utopia. Unfortu- 
nately for our purposes, that interesting book was 
written in Latin and, though soon translated into 
English, cannot represent to us the author's Eng- 
hsh style. I have chosen a selection from his 
Dialogues rather than from the History of Richard 
III, partly because the style seems to me more 
touched with the author's emotion, and partly 
because the passage presents the attitude of the 
writer on a cjuestion which may interest many 
modern readers. It is characteristic in its mixture 
of dignity, good sense, prejudice, enlightenment, 
spiritual earnestness, and plajrfulness of temper. 
The question of making the Bible accessible to the 
laity was one of the burning questions of the day. 
Sir Thomas argued that the Church had done all 
it was safe to do in this matter and that more harm 
than good would arise from going further. Tyn- 
dale and his fellows, a specimen of whose transla- 
tion follows, thought differentl3^ 

WILLIAM TYNDALE 
The Gospell op S. Mathew 

Pp. 96 f. Tjmdale's translation of the New 
Testament (1525) was the first of many transla- 
tions into English that appeared during the six- 
teenth century. It passed througla two editions 
of 3000 copies each almost immediatelj^, although 
it had to be printed abroad and distributed sur- 
reptitiously. The opposition of the English 
bishops to its circulation was bitter and efl'ective, 
and as Henry VIII had not yet broken with the 
Roman Church, he did not come to the aid of 
Tyndale as he did to that of Coverdale ten years 
later. 

Tyndale's translation is one of the most im- 
portant monuments of the English language. 
As will readily be seen, the Authorized Version 
of 1611 is greatly indebted to it in diction and 
phraseology; and it has directly or indirectly 
affected the language of all later writers and 
speakers of English. 

WYATT AND SURREY 

Pp. 97 flf. Most of the lyrics of Sir Thomas 
Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey were first printed in 
a little volume entitled Soiigcs and Sonettes written 
by the right honourable Lorde Henry Howard, late 
Earle of Surrey, and other, but commonly known, 
from the publisher's name, as TottcFs Miscellany. 
With this volume modern English literature is usu- 



698 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



ally regarded as beginning ; its significance is duly 
emphasized in all histories of English literature. 

The contribution of Wyatt, Surrey, and their 
fellows is twofold; partly in introducing new 
forms of verse, and partly in developing themes 
which were either new or freshly conceived and 
expressed. The principal new forms were the 
sonnet, which was destined to become the stand- 
ard form for the brief expression of serious thought 
in poetic mood, and blank verse, which was des- 
tined to become the standard form for drama and 
serious narrative poetry. 

The Lover Complaineth 

P. 98. This poem appears to be original, as also 
is the next. Lines 6-8 mean "My song may pierce 
her heart as soon as a tool of lead can engrave in 
marble or a sound be heard where there is no ear 
to hear." 

A Description, Etc. 

I. 4. The / in should is pronounced and the 
word rhymes with gold (1. 6). 

1. 7. The printed editions have tried, but 
tied (the reading of the Mss.) is obviously correct. 
The poet says that he might be tied to one object 
of love if she possessed the charms he enumerates, 
and good sense (wit) in addition. 

Description and Praise op his Love 

P. 100. This sonnet was addressed to Elizabeth 
Fitzgerald, daughter of the great Irish Earl of Kil- 
dare, who was brought to England and imprisoned 
by Henry VIII. After her father's execution in 
1534, Elizabeth was attached to the household of 
the Princess Mary. A very romantic stoTy grew up 
about the love of Surrey for the fair Geraldine, as 
she was called ; but his love poems were probably 
mere literary exercises, as Elizabeth was only 
nine years old when this poem is supposed to have 
been written. The Fitzgeralds claimed to have 
come from Florence in Tuscany (11. i, 2); Camber 
(1. 4) is Wales; Hunsdon (1. g) and Hampton (1. 11) 
were royal residences. Surrey was imprisoned at 
Windsor in 1537 for having struck a courtier, and 
this poem (because of 1. 12) is usually ascribed to 
that date; but he was also imprisoned there in 
1542, and, after all, the passage may mean that 
Geraldine was at Windsor and he elsewhere. 

The Means to Attain a Happy Life 

The epigram on this subject by the Latin poet 
Martial addressed to himself {Ad Seipsum), has 



been a favorite for translation. Surrey's version 
is very graceful as well as nearly literal. 

Virgil's ^neid 

This is important as the earliest blank verse 
written in England. Although lacking the 
flexibility later developed by Shakespeare, Milton, 
and others, this earliest attempt is far less stiff 
and .monotonous than much blank verse that 
followed it. The translation keeps pretty close 
to the original, though it lacks distinction and 
perfection of phrasing. 

In this passage ^Eneas begins to tell Dido the 
story of the destruction of Troy and his wander- 
ings. 

U. lo-ii. The soldiers mentioned were enemies 
of ^neas. 

1. 55. Kindled means excited. The punish- 
ment of Laocoon, related by Virgil in this same 
book, has become famous in literature and in art. 

ROGER ASCHAM 

The Scholemaster 

Pp. 101 flf. Ascham is of special interest for two 
reasons : his reforms in the methods of teaching 
Latin and his services to English criticism. His 
ideas on education, presented fuUy in his Schole- 
master, were singularly enlightened. He be- 
lieved in making the study of Latin as easy as pos- 
sible ; he held that the value of the classics lay, 
not in their difficulty, but in the world of great 
ideas and great men which they made accessible; 
and he counseled humane and gentle methods of 
instruction and discipline. His ideas prevailed 
for a time, but were long forgotten or disregarded 
and had to be rediscovered by schoolmasters of the 
last quarter of the nineteenth century. Much 
of his criticism of literature we now regard as 
mistaken, particularly his advocacy of classi- 
cal metres for English and his mixture of ethics 
with aesthetics in his judgments; but his ideas 
of English st3de were in the main sound, and 
he aided not a little in preventing the language 
from being overrun with ornate words of Latin 
origin. 

In some matters he was very conservative. He 
believed that the replacement of the bow by the 
gun would cause the decay of manhood and he 
therefore wrote a book, Toxophilus (Lover of 
the Bow), to revive and promote archery in 
England. 



NOTES 



699 



JOHN FOXE 

Acts and Monuments 

Pp. 103 £f. This book, more commonly called 
Foxe's Book of Martyrs, is the work of a violent 
partisan. It purports to describe "the great 
persecutions and horrible troubles that have been 
wrought and practised by the Romish prelates, 
especially in this realm of England, and Scotland, 
from the year of our Lord a thousand unto the 
time now present" (1563). Probably no book 
ever written is more uncritical and unjust, or has 
done so much to create among Protestants a wrong 
conception of Queen Mary and the Catholics of 
the sixteenth century. Catholics like Sir Thomas 
More and Bishop Fisher and numerous others, 
who suffered the same sorts of deaths as the Prot- 
estant martyrs, Foxe regards as wicked men who 
were justly and not too severely punished by 
righteous and gracious Henry VIII. Foxe's 
book — a huge folio originally, eight octavo vol- 
umes in the modem editions — is an unrelieved 
orgy of blood and bitterness, but it was much rel- 
ished by our Protestant ancestors. 



THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST 
A Mirror for Magistrates 

Pp. 105 ff. This is a tremendous collection (over 
1400 pages) of tragic stories of wicked and unfortu- 
nate kings and nobles of Great Britain, from 1085 
B.C. to the end of the fifteenth century after 
Christ. In character and aim it is mediaeval; 
its editor says in his address to the nobility (i.e., 
those called magistrates in the title) : "Here, as 
in a looking-glass, you shall see, if any vice be in 
}'ou, how the like hath been punished in other[s] 
heretofore." The plan was derived from such 
mediaeval works as Chaucer's Monk's Tale and 
Lydgate's Falls of Princes. Nine editions, not 
counting reprints, were published between 1554 
and 1 6 10, and it contributed greatly to the de- 
velopment of historical poems and plays on British 
history. The author of the Induction was Thomas 
Sackville, one of the authors of Gorboduc, the first 
English tragedy, who later, as Lord Buckhurst, 
was an eminent statesman. The subject of the 
Induction is a vision in which the goddess Sorrow 
shows the author the enemies of mankind and the 
sad plight of their victims. 

1. 210. Averne, lake Avemus, near Cumae, 
through which /Eneas entered the underworld. 
This description is based on the Mncid, VI, 237 ff. 



1. 219 etc. Remorse of Conscience, Dread, Re- 
venge, Misery, etc., are personifications of the 
mediaeval type. 

P. 106. 1.294. Wealth and poverty are here con- 
trasted in Crcesus, the fabulously rich king, and Iriis, 
the beggar described in the Odyssey, Bk. XVIII. 

1. 299. The Sisters, the Fates who spin and cut 
the thread of man's fate (cf. Lycidas, 75-6). 

1. 330. This recalls the ridcHe of the Sphynx : 

There lives upon earth a being, two-footed, yea, 
and with four feet, 

Yea and with three feet too, yet his v6ice con- 
tinues unchanging : 

And lo ! of all things that move in earth, in heaven 
or in ocean. 

He only changes his nature, and yet when on 
most feet he walketh, 

Then is the speed of his limbs most weak and 
utterh^ powerless. 

The solution given by QEpidus was as follows : 

Man is it thou hast described, who, when on 

earth he appeareth, 
First as a babe from the womb, four-footed creeps 

on his way ; 
Then when old age cometh on and the burden of 

years weighs full heavy, 
Bending his shoulders and neck, as a third foot 

useth his staff. 

Tr. by Plumptre, The Tragedies of Sophocles, p. i, 
notes 2, 3. 



THE RENAISSANCE 

EDMUND SPENSER 
The Shepheards Calender 

Pp. 108 ff. About 300 B.C., when the social 
life of Greek cities had become highly artificial 
and sophisticated, there arose, just as there has 
arisen in our own time, a feeling of satiety and 
weariness, and a fad of celebrating the charm 
and the virtues of rural life — a movement "back 
to nature." The most important literary result 
of this fad was the Eclogues of Theocritus, a native 
probably of Sicily, and a dweller in the courts of 
S3Tacuse and Alexandria. In these Eclogues 
Theocritus represents goatherds as discussing the 
interests and incidents of their simple life, such as 
the care of their flocks, their contests in song, 
their loves, their joys and their sorrows. Three 



yoo 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



centuries later, when Roman society was similarly 
sophisticated, the Latin poet Vergil wrote, in imi- 
tation of Theocritus, poems of a similar character, 
his Eclogues. With the revival of classical learn- 
ing in the period of the Renaissance came imita- 
tions of all types of classical literature, and among 
them of the eclogue. This type of poetry, the 
pastoral, as it is called, passed naturally from a 
celebration of the simplicity and innocent sweet- 
ness of country life to a contrasting of it with the 
com-plicated, wearisome, vicious life of men in 
cities, and the pastoral became very early a 
medium of social, religious, and political satire. 
Under these conditions, naturally enough, the 
pastoral was often allegorical or symbolical. 
Feeding one's flocks meant really something else 
— governing a kingdom, or ruling a diocese, or 
presiding over a college; contests in song meant 
really contests in politics, or religion, or some 
other affair of the great world ; and the characters, 
though bearing the names of shepherds, were under- 
stood to be statesmen, or bishops, or scholars, or 
poets. 

Spenser was not the first Englishman to write 
pastoral poetry, but his Shepheards Calender was 
the first English pastoral of real beauty or power. 
It is a series of twelve poems, one for each month, 
in which shepherds are represented as keeping 
their flocks and engaging in discussions of matters 
that interest them. Some of these poems, "asg- 
loges" he calls them, are undoubtedly allegorical. 
That for February has been thought to be in real- 
ity a controversy as to the old and new religious 
establishments. 

The vogue of the pastoral conception and its 
conventions explains the form and tone of many 
lyrics of the Elizabethan age, as well as Milton's 
choice of the pastoral eclogue as the form for 
Lycidas. 

The language of the Shepheards Calender is 
archaic. Spenser wished to give it a rustic tone, 
and he did so, not by imitating the language of the 
rustics of his own day, but by imitating the spell- 
ing of older English and using some old words. 
He had particularly in mind the works of Chaucer, 
which had already been published in several edi- 
tions. As he did not know how to pronounce 
fourteenth century English, it is highly probable 
that he thought that in some of the metres of the 
Shepheards Calender he was writing Chaucerian 
verse. 

P. 108. ^gloga is so spelled because Spenser 
thought the word meant goat-song. The word 
is properly eclogue and means a choice or a chosen 
song. Phyllis (1. 63) and Tilyrus (1. 92) are names 



from Vergil (and Theocritus) ; Thenol (1. 25) is 
from the French poet Marot. 

1. 40. Making music by blowing in pipes made 
of the straws or stems of oats was conventionally 
one of the chief occupations of the shepherds in 
pastoral poems. In England corn never means 
maize, Indian corn, but simply grain. 

P. 109. 11. 65-66. A gilt girdle embossed with 
glass beads (buegle or bugle) was an appropriate 
gift to win the love of Phyllis, the country maid. 

1. 92. By Tityrus Spenser usually indicates 
Chaucer, but this tale of the Oak and the Briar 
is not from Chaucer. 

1. 116. Thelement: the element par excellence, 
i.e., the air, the other three elements being earth, 
water, and fire. 

The Faerie Queene 

Pp. Ill ff. Spenser's design in writing the 
Faerie Queene is best told in his own words in a 
letter to Sir Walter Raleigh : 

"The generall end therefore of all the booke is to 
fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous 
and gentle discipline : Which for that I conceived 
shoulde be most plausible and pleasing, being col- 
oured with an historicaU fiction, the which the most 
part of men delight to read, rather for variety of 
matter than for profite of the ensample, I chose 
the historye of King Arthure, as most fitte for the 
excellency of his person, being made famous by 
many mens former workes, and also furthest from 
the daunger of envy, and suspition of present time. 
... I labour to pourtraict in Arthure, before 
he was king, the image of a brave knight, perfected 
in the twelve private moraU vertues, as Aristotle 
hath devised; the which is the purpose of these 
first twelve bookes : which if I finde to be well 
accepted, I may be perhaps encoraged to frame the 
other part of polliticke vertues in his person, after 
that hee came to be king. ... In that Faery 
Queene I meane glory in my generall intention, 
but in my particular I conceive the most excellent 
and glorious person of our soveraine the Queene, 
and her kingdome in Faery Land. And yet, in 
some places els, I doe otherwise shadow her. For 
considering she beareth two persons, the one of a 
most royaU Queene or Empresse, the other of a 
most vertuous and beautifull Lady, this latter 
part in some places I doe expresse in Belphocbe, 
fashioning her name according to your owne ex- 
cellent conceipt of Cynthia, (Phoebe and C3aithia 
being both names of Diana). So in the person 
of Prince Arthure I sette forth magnificence in 
particular; which vertue, for that (according to 



NOTES 



701 



Aristotle and the rest) it is the perfection of all the 
rest, and conteineth in it them all, therefore in 
the whole course I mention the deedes of Arthure 
applyable to that vertue which I write of in that 
booke. But of the xii. other vertues I make xii. 
other knights the patrones [i.e., patterns, models], 
for the more variety of the history : of which these 
three bookes contayn three. The first of the 
Knight of the Redcrosse, in whome I expresse 
holynes : The seconde of Sir Guyon, in whome I 
sette fortli temperaunce : The third of Britomartis, 
a lady knight, in whome I picture chastity. . . . 
"The beginning therefore of my history, if it 
were to be told by an Historiographer, should be 
the twelfth booke, which is the last ; where I de- 
vise that the Faery Queene kept her Annuall 
feaste xii. daj^es, uppon which xii. several! dayes, 
the occasions of the xii. severall adventures hapned, 
which being imdertaken by xii. severall knights, 
are in these xii. books severally handled and dis- 
coursed. The first was this. In the beginning 
of the feast, there presented him selfe a tall clown- 
ishe younge man, who, falling before the Queen 
of Faries, desired a boone (as the manner then 
was) which during that feast she might not refuse : 
v/hich was that hee might have the atchievement 
of any adventure, which during that feaste should 
happen : that being graunted, he rested him on 
the floore, unfitte through his rusticity for a better 
place. Soone after entred a faire Ladye in mourn- 
ing weedes, riding on a white Asse, with a dwarfe 
behind her leading a warhke steed, that bore the 
Armes of a knight, and his speare in the dwarfes 
hand. Shee, falling before the Queene of Faeries, 
complayned that her father and mother, an an- 
cient King and Queene, had bene b}'- an huge 
dragon many years shut up in a brasen Castle, who 
thence suffred them not to yssew; and therefore 
besought the Faer}^ Queene to assygne her some 
one of her knights to take on him that exployt. 
Presently that clownish person, upstarting, de- 
sired that adventure : whereat the Queene much 
wondering, and the Lady much gainesaying, yet 
he earnestly importuned his desire. In the end 
the lady told him, that unless that armour which 
she brought would serv^e him (that is, the armour 
of a Christian man specified by Saint Paul, 
vi. Ephes.), that he could not succeed in that 
enterprise : which being forthwith put upon him 
with dewe furnitures thereunto, he seemed the 
goodliest man in al that company, and was well 
liked of the Lady. And eftesoones taking on him 
knighthood, and mounting on that straunge 
Courser, he went forth with her on that adven- 
ture : where beginneth the first booke, viz. 



"A gentle knight was pricking on the playne, &c." 

Of this plan he completed scarcely more in pro- 
portion than did Chaucer of his original scheme for 
the Canterbury Tales; of the twenty-four books 
planned, six are complete and there are portions 
of two others. 

To get some idea of the length of the projected 
work, note that a single book contains more than 
43,000 words — is about half as long as a modern 
novel. Consequently, Spenser was undertaking 
the equivalent of a dozen novels in addition to 
reducing all his material to an elaborate and arti- 
ficial metrical form. 

Aside from its length, The Faerie Queene as 
planned was impracticable. Medieval poems, 
such as the Roman de la Rose and the romances of 
the Grail Cycle, had indeed personified abstract 
qualities and allegorized situations and actions; 
but Spenser's outhne called, first, for a much more 
elaborate display of the virtues and vices and their 
conflicts with one another, and, secondly, for his- 
torical interpretations also of characters and scenes 
involved in the romance. In the First Book he 
succeeds fairly well with the efforts of the Red 
Cross Knight to free the church from Error, H^qDoc- 
risy, and the great dragon, Sin ; but as the poem 
advanced, the plots inevitably became entangled, 
the characters and situations inconsistent, and the 
allegory obscured. 

Moreover, the structural weakness of the poem, 
as shown in Spenser's outline, involves an intoler- 
able degree of suspense if the work is to be regarded 
as a continuous whole. If, however, each book 
is read separately with the emphasis on the ro- 
mance rather than on the allegor}-, the poem can 
scarcely fail to give great pleasure, both by its 
continual appeal to the imagination, and by its 
wonderful verse movement and perfect adapta- 
_ tion of sound to sense. 

The nine-line stanza used was invented by 
Spenser and is named for him Spenserian. It 
consists of the ten-syllabled eight-line stanza 
which had been in common use earlier, plus an 
alexandrine, or twelve-syllabled line rhyming with 
the eighth line. The rhyme-scheme is, then, 
ababbcbcc. The movement is full of dignity, 
but necessarily slow (cf. Pope's clever gibe at 
the Alexandrine in the Essay on Criticism, II, 356- 

357)- 

The key to the allegory in the passages quoted 
is: 

Canto I 

The Red Cross Knight (1. i), holiness, Church 
of England. 



702 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Gloriana (1. 20) , glory, Elizabeth. 
Dragon (1. 27), sin. 
The Lady (1. 28), Una, truth. 
The ass (1. 29), humility. 
The milkwhite lamb (1. 36), irmocence. 
The dwarf (1. 46), prudence. 
The aged sire., Archimago (the chief magician, 
1. 384), hypocrisy; also Jesuitism. 



Canto III 

The lion (1. 38), strength of mind. 

Stanzas VIII to XXVIII tell how Error and her 
brood are overcome by the knight ; but he and the 
lady then fall into the clutches of Hj^^ocrisy. 

P. 113. Canto I, 1. 313. file his tongue, polish 
it so that it would utter smooth words. 

1. 317. sad humor, heavy vapor. 

1. 328. In late classic writers, Proserpine, the 
wife of Pluto (Hades), came to be associated and 
even confused with Hecate, the goddess of magic 
(1. 381). Cf. Gayley's Classic Myths, pp. 83, 
84. 

I. 332. Gorgon, i.e., Demogorgon. This name 
was iirst given to Pluto, seemingly, by a writer of 
the fifth century a.d. It appears in Boccaccio's 
Genealogia Deorum, which is supposed to be the 
source of Ariosto. Spenser probably got it from 
Ariosto, and Milton {Paradise Lost, II, 965) from 
Spenser. 

!• 32>2>- Styx and Cocytus are two of the rivers 
in the kingdom of the dead. There were two or 
(according to some authors) three others. 

II. 343-387. The visit of a messenger to the 
house of Morpheus occurs in Ovid's Metamor- 
phoses (XI, 592-632), and has been borrowed and 
worked up by many later poets, Chaucer among 
them. Chaucer in his Death of Blanche the 
Duchess (11. 160-165) has just the hint of Spenser's 
wonderful description of the cave of sleep in the 
lines : 

"Save ther were a fewe weUes 
Came rennj^ng fro the cliflfes a-doun, 
That made a deedly, slepyng soun, 
And ronnen doun right by a cave 
That was under a rokke y-grave 
Amidde the valey, wonder depe." 

1. 348. Tethys, a Titaness, i.e., one of the 
older race of gods, overthrown by Jupiter (cf. 
Keats's Hyperion) . She was the wife of Oceanus, 
the ocean, another of the same line, his refers to 
Morpheus, whose bed was beneath the sea. 



Epithalamion 

pp. 115 S. The custom of writing a poem to 
celebrate a wedding and to be sung at the bride's 
house by a procession of youths and maidens is 
classical. Such poems were called Epithalamia, or 
hymeneal songs. 

1. I. learned sisters, the Muses, who are regu- 
larly invoked by poets. Cf. Gayley's Classic 
Myths. 

1. 7. Probably an aUusion to Spenser's Tears of 
the Muses. 

1. 16. Orpheus, cf. Gayle3^'s Classic Myths; 
also Milton's L'Allegro, U. 145-150, Lycidas, 
11. 58-63, and notes on these lines. 

1. 25. Hymen, god of marriage, represented in 
art as a winged youth bearing a lighted torch and 
the nuptial veil. He was supposed to lead the 
wedding procession or masque (1. 26). 

1. 43. Flowers of earl}^ summer. Spenser was 
married June 11, St. Barnabas Day, which was then 
(cf. 11. 265-272) the date of the summer solstice. 

1. 44. truelove mise, with truelove knots. 

1. 75. Tithon's bed. Aurora, goddess of the 
dawn, is fabled to have loved Tithonus and to 
. have procured for him from the gods the gift of 
immortality. Unfortunately she neglected to ask 
that he should never grow old. Tennyson's fine 
poem Tithonus depicts the distress which came 
from this neglect. 

1. 83. concent, harmony, from Latin concentns, 
a singing together. 

P. 116. 1.95. /fe^/ienij, the evening star, is here 
mentioned only for its brightness ; but Spenser can 
hardly have failed to remember the line in the 
Wedding of Pelens and Thetis in which Catullus 
speaks of Hesperus as bringer of Vi^hat the husband 
desires (1. 328). Tennyson in Locksley Hall Sixty 
Years After calls Hesper the "bringer home of 
all good things " (cf. U. 185-194). 

1. 98. Hours, "the goddesses of order in na- 
ture, who cause the seasons to change in their 
regular course, and aU things to come into being, 
blossom, and ripen at the appointed time." 

1. 103. The three Graces, as well as the Hours, 
attended on Venus. Cyprian, because she was 
supposed to have first landed on Cyprus after her 
birth in the sea. 

1. 190. Medusa was a maiden who dared to 
vie in beauty with the goddess Minerva. As a 
punishment her hair was changed into serpents 
and her appearance became such that all who saw 
her — "read her mazeful head" — were turned 
into stone. Read Shelley's lines On the Medusa 
of Leonardo da Vinci : 



NOTES 



703 



"Yet it is less the horror than the grace 
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone." 

P. 117. 1. 269. the Crab, the zodiacal sign 
Cancer, the first sign after the summer solstice, 
in which the sun seems to crawl slowly backward 
from the high point it had reached. 

1. 433. The meaning seems to be : "May you 
(the song), instead of lasting only a short time, 
as would the ornaments you ha^•e taken the place 
of, be an eternal memorial of my love." 

Amoretti 

Pp. 117 f. The Amoretti and the Epithalamion 
were published together in a smaU volume in 1595 ; 
and as the Epitlmlamion celebrates Spenser's own 
marriage, it has been assumed that the Amoretti 
celebrate his courtship of his wife. Recently 
this assumption has been attacked, and the 
theory maintained that the Amoretti, like so 
many of the sonnet-cj-cles of the time, were a mere 
literary exercise of courtly compliment. This 
may be true; at any rate, it is unsafe to regard 
these sonnets as strictly autobiographical and to 
use them as they have been used in writing Spen- 
ser's life. Other EHzabethan sonnet-cycles quoted 
from in this volume are Sidney's Astrophel and 
Stella, Daniel's Delia, Drayton's Idea, and 
Shakespeare's Sonnets. For later cycles, see Mrs. 
Browning and D. G. Rossetti. 

VIII, 1. 5. the bUnded guest, the god of love. 

P. 118. XXIV, 1. 10. Helice] the constellation 
of the Great Bear, by which Greek sailors steered 
their course (cf. note on L' Allegro, 1. 80). 

Prothalamion 

Pp. 118 ff . The subtitle reads : A Spousall Verse 
made by Edm. Spenser in Honour of the Double Mar- 
riage of the Two Honorable 6° Vertuous Ladies, the 
Ladie Elizabeth and the Ladie Katherinc Somerset, 
Daughters to the Right Honourable the Earle of 
Worcester and espoused to the Two Wort hie Gentle- 
men Master Henry Gilford, and Af aster William 
Peter, Esquyers. The occasion seems to have been 
a real water fete to celebrate the spousall, i.e., 
formal betrothal, of the two daughters of the Earl 
of Worcester. The bridegrooms were Sir Henry 
Guildford and William, Lord Petre. That a 
distinction between spousall and marriage was 
made at that time is clear (cf., for exami:)le. 
Faerie Queene (I, x, 4, 7)) : "Though spoused, yet 
wanting wedlocks solemnize." That this poem 
celebrates such a contracting is indicated by 11. 



175-179, which become perfectly clear if "at th' 
appointed tide" refers to the spousal ceremony 
while "their bridal day" in the refrain refers for- 
ward to the wedding, which did not take place 
until November 8. It seems certain that the 
poem was written between the two events. 

The names Somerset and Devereux are punned 
upon in 11. 67 and 153-154 (happy: Fr. heureux). 

Perhaps Spenser hoped for some reward for this 
occasional poem. He says that he has been dis- 
appointed after a long stay at court (11. 5-10), and 
we know from the dedication of the Four Hymns 
that he was at Greenwich in September, 1596. 
His allusions to the favors that he had received 
from Leicester (11. 137-142), to his love of London 
(11. 1 27-131), and his laudation of the Earl of 
Essex's fame (11. 145-158) and personal beauty 
(11. 163-165) strongly suggest that he used the oc- 
casion to solicit Essex's influence with the Queen 
to secure for him a place that would enable him 
to live in London. Perhaps he aimed at this result 
both directl}^ through Essex and indirectly through 
the Earl of Worcester. But the Queen was disap- 
pointed at the results of Essex's expedition (11. 
147-152), and he was for a time out of her favor. 
In any case, the poem seems to have brought 
no result, as Spenser soon after returned to 
Ireland. 

If the poem is to be read literallj'- as describing 
a real pageant, the party of the brides set out upon 
the Lea River (11. 37-38, 114-118), which empties 
into the Thames opposite Greenwich, where the 
court then was ; and on the Thames, near the place 
where the poet stood (near Greenwich?), they 
were met by the "n)'mphs" (from the Court, 
then. at Greenwich) with flowers and songs, and 
so passed up the Thames to the Temple (11. 132- 
136) or to Essex House which stood by it (11. 137, 
163), where they were met by Essex and the 
bridegrooms. 

Compare the regidar metre with the refrain 
at the end of each stanza, and the less regular 
verse of the Epithalamion. 

11. 42-44. For the story of Jove's changing 
himself into a swan to win the love of Leda, cf. 
Gayley's Classic Myths. 

1. 63. Venus' silver team, doves. 

P. 119. 11. 78-So. This district of Greece 
was famed for its beauty, and the name Tempe was 
generalized to mean any beautiful ^•alley (cf. 
Keats's Ode on a Grecian Urn, 1. 7). 

1. 121. Cynthia, the moon; a compliment to 
Ehzabeth, as the Virgin Queen, was also implied. 

P. 120. 11. 147-149. The conquest of Cadiz 
by the English. Essex led the expedition. The 



704 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



pillars of Hercules are the two promontories sepa- 
rated by the strait of Gibraltar. 

Spenser's Hymns 

Pp. 120 ff. In 1596 Spenser published a little 
volume entitled Foure Hymnes. The iirst two 
have as their subjects Love and Beauty, respec- 
tively; the second two, Heavenly Love and 
Heavenly Beauty. All four were written under 
the influence of the poetico-philosophical ideas 
known as neo-platonism — a mixture of parts of 
the philosophy of Plato with elements drawn from 
oriental mysticism and from Christian doctrine. 
"The two original Hymnes in Honour of Love and 
of Beautie, taken together, suggest," as Professor 
Fletcher says, " the ascent from sensual to intellec- 
tual love. . . . The two later Hymnes purge away 
all suggestion of romantic love, and develop at 
length the four higher grades of the soul's reas- 
cent to God. Thus the Foure Hymnes really con- 
stitute one complete doctrinal poem." 

Our selections are from the second and fourth 
of the hymns. The first selection sets forth the 
view that every earthlj^ thing is made after a 
divine pattern and is beautiful just in proportion 
as it partakes of the nature and qualities of its 
pattern. It is the infusion of this celestial power 
which kindles beauty and love in all things beauti- 
ful; "for of the soul the body form doth take." 
A beautiful body therefore must be the residence 
of a beautiful soul. Yet the poet is forced to ad- 
mit that sometimes, by some perversion of nature, 
a beautiful soul is found in an ugly body and a 
v/icked, ugly soul in a beautiful body; this how- 
ever he reconciles poetically, though not logically, 
with his theory. The Cyprian Queen (1. 55) is 
Venus as goddess of love and fruitfulness. 

The second selection shows how by contempla- 
tion of the beauty and goodness of created things 
we rise to a vision of the beauty and goodness 
and love of God. 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

Pp. 122 ff. "The miracle of our age," Sidney 
was called by an enthusiastic contemporary, but 
the quality of his work does not account for his 
extraordinary influence upon the writers of his 
own day. This is rather to be explained by his 
strong enthusiasms, generous patronage of litera- 
ture, social rank, physical prowess, personal charm, 
romantic love affair, and tragic early death, which, 
taken all together, touched the popular imagina- 
tion. Fully two hundred memorials were pub- 



lished at the time of his death, and for a genera- 
tion after. Arcadian romance and sonneteering 
were literary fashions, while several plays drew 
their plots from episodes of the Arcadia. 

ASTROPHEL AND StELLA 

Pp. 122 f . Although Watson's sonnets were the 
first published as a series (1582), Sidney's were 
circulating in manuscript among his friends at 
that time; and it was their publication in 1591 
that seems to have given the great impulse to 
sonnet writing. The series was called Astro phel 
and Stella (Star-lover and Star). Stella was 
Lady Penelope Devereux, the Earl of Essex's 
sister, who in 1581 married Lord Rich. A mar- 
riage between her and Sidney had been partly 
arranged by their parents, and the earlier sonnets 
seem to have been largely literary exercises. Only 
when it was too late did Sidney awaken to his love 
for her, and the later sonnets are believed to re- 
flect real passion. 

1. 1. 6. inventions, methods of treating a theme ; 
but in 11. 9, ID Invention is creative imagination. 

XV. 11. 5-6. dictionary's method . . . rimes. 
Sidney refers to alliteration, by which words be- 
ginning with the same letter are associated as, he 
says contemptuously, they are in the dictionary. 
For the use of alliteration, see Piers the Plowman; 
for its use combined with rhj^me, see Pearl. 

11. 7-8. Sidney means that the English son- 
neteers lack originality. They are still sighing 
over the woes that Petrarch long ago expressed in 
his sonnets, and their ideas {wit) are not their own 
but his, naturalized {denizen' d). 

P. 123. XXXIX. Compare Daniel's sonnet, 
No. LIV, Fletcher's Invocation to Sleep, Words- 
worth's and Keats's sonnets entitled To Sleep, 
and Macbeth, II, ii, 37-40. 

XLI. 1. I. The occasion referred to is prob- 
ably a tournament which was held in the spring 
of 1581, in honor of a French embassy (1. 4). 

11. 6-7. A more fastidious judge declares too 
slight such praise as good form permits him to 
give ; that is, he finds speech inadequate. 

1. 10. The Sidneys were knights and soldiers 
as early as the time of Henry II. On his mother's 
side, Sir Philip was descended from the Dukes of 
Northumberland. 

The Nightingale 

According to classical legend, Tereus, King of 
Thrace, married Procne, daughter of Pandion, 
King of Athens, and by her had a son Itys, or 



NOTES 



705 



Itylus. After five years, at the request of his wife, 
he went to Athens to persuade her younger sister 
Philomela to visit her; but falling in love with 
Philomela, he, on the way to Thrace, ravished 
her, and cut out her tongue in order that she might 
not be able to betray him. She, however, wove 
pictures of her wrongs in a web of cloth and 
sent it to Procne. The two sisters then, for re- 
venge, killed Itys and served him up to his father 
to eat. When Tereus learned what they had done, 
he tried to kill them ; but the gods changed him 
into a hawk, Procne into a swallow, and Philo- 
mela into a nightingale, and the pursuit and at- 
tempt to slay still continues. The story is 
frequently alluded to by Elizabethan poets. They 
had studied it in school in Ovid's Metamorphoses 
(VI, 412-674). Compare the love song on p. 94, 
hyly's Spring's Welcome (p. 128), and As It Fell 
Upon a Day (p. 162). For modern versions, see 
Matthew Arnold's Philomela (p. 616), and Swin- 
burne's Itylus (p. 642). 

The tereu (Spring's Welcome, 1. 3) and teru (As 
It Fell Upon a Day, 1. 14) come from a fancied 
resemblance between the vocative Tereu and the 
nightingale's song. 

Hymn to Apollo 

Apollo is addressed in his double character as 
the sun and as the god of intellectual endeavor, 
as appears in 11. 1-2. 

1. 5. Python's skin. The Python was a ser- 
pent-monster slain by Apollo near Delphi, as is 
related in Ovid's Metamorphoses, I, 416-451. 

1. 8. Doth teach to learn the good ivhat travails 
do belong, i.e., what labor is involved in learning 
the good. 

Arcadia 

Pp. 124 ff. Sidney's Arcadia was written to 
amuse his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke. 
He seems to have considered it — what it is — 
mere elaborate trifling, and on his deathbed he 
asked to have the manuscript burned. His sister, 
however, took charge of its publication in 1590. 
Its influence on Elizabethan prose was pronounced 
although perhaps not so great as was that of the 
sonnets on verse. It is too leisurely in movement 
and too complicated in structure to be well illus- 
trated by a continuous selection, e.xcept as to 
its style, but the passage here presented seems 
better suited than any other of similar length 
to convey an idea of the nature of the story 
and the sources of its charm for Sidney's con- 
temporaries. 



On the Countess of Pembroke herself (cf. 
Browne's Epitaph, p. 177). .i si -lodmn 

JOHN LYLY 

Pp. 127 f. The selection from John Lyly's 
Euphues and his England may seem to some 
teachers shorter than is warranted by Lyly's repu- 
tation and his indubitable services to English 
prose. But the characteristics of his style are such 
as can be exhibited in comparatively small com- 
pass, and its excessive ornamentation soon be- 
comes monotonous and unendurable. Moreover, 
it is not by its ornamental but by its structural 
features that it rendered its services to English 
prose, and the most significant of these, as Pro- 
fessor Morsbach has shown, is exact balance of 
accents in correlative phrases and clauses. 

P. 128. Lyly's classical comedies, which de- 
lighted Ehzabeth's court, were written for the boy 
actors of St. Paul's and the Savoy, and were 
played by them. Some scholars have thought that 
the exquisitely fanciful lyrics scattered through 
the plays were not written by Lyly; but the 
weight of evidence seems to me entirely against 
this view, and I have therefore presented them 
here, under Lyly's name. 

Spring's Welcome 

11. 1-4. Cf. Sidney's The Nightingale (p. 123) 
and notes on it. 

11. 6-8. Cf. Shakespeare's sonnet XXIX, 
11-12 (p. 139), and the first song from Cymbeline 
(P- 145)- 

THOMAS LODGE 

Pp. 129 flf . The subtitle of Rosalynde shows that 
Lodge was one of the immediate heirs to Lyly's 
affectations. Rosalynde is quite as artificial as 
Euphues and much more sentimental. Shake- 
speare borrowed the plot oi As You Like It from 
Lodge's novel ; but he made many important 
changes in structure and characterization, and the 
difference in atmosphere between the two works is 
as great as between a perfumed, lighted room and 
a forest glade in the sunshine. Compare this pas- 
sage with Act III, Sc. ii, and Act IV, Sc. i, of the 
play. Read the madrigal from this romance 
published in England's Helicon, p. 164 of this 
volume. 

P. 129 a. like the Syren. Cf. the passage 
from Chapman's Odysseys, pp. 145 f. 

P. 129 h. (Enone . . . Paris. See Peek's 
charming song, p. 161. 



jo6 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



SoitHei. . Cf. Sonetto on p. 131. Note that 
neither is in the conventional sonnet form. 

P. 130 b. with Ixion embrace Juno. Ixion was 
a king of the Lapithae, who, for boasting that he 
had won the love of Jimo, was bound forever to a 
revolving wheel in Tartarus, the place of punish- 
ment for the wicked. 

-,\ fle-wJo_ tlie fist. When the falconer whistles, the 
feird flies back and settles on his iist. So Gani- 
mede, i.e., Rosaljoide, recognized in Rosader her 
master and showed her preference for him, even 
though he did -not know her and had not sent 
any "call." ■ 'j . 

[■Phyllis- ;■'. .Ariadne. Chaucer tells both 
Stories, and also that of Dido, in his Legend of Good 
Women (Ih 2394-2561, 1886-2227, and 924-1367). 
iL.i.G2iy\^y'&Cl-assic Myths. Phyllis hanged her- 
self in despair of the return of her loyer Demoph- 
oon and was changed into an almond tree. Lodge 
calls the tree philbert {filbert, i.e., hazel), evi- 
dently thinking that the name is derived from 
iF'hyllis. Ariadne "helped Theseus to slay the 
Minotaur in the -labyrinth, and was afterwards 
idrsakeh by-:him.'<lU naJjiiv/ 
Janiijjfi x-ts'i'J'^-'^ 9™ oi amass 

Pp. 131 ff. Robert Greene had the reputation 
of being one of the most dissolute and disreputable 
men of his time. Strangely enough his plays and 
ihis novels are singularly free from immorality and 
coarseness, and his songs are not only sweet 
afid clean' but have 3;n astonishing accent of inno- 
'^lice.ati'd siniiilipty. :2irl aiiJ bri,B ,(q£i 

A Groat's Woeth:oxiW^ Bought 

izA i WJ^ ^ Million op Repentance 

a'YP|)J 133 ff:- Although this purports to bea death- 
bed confession and admonition by Greene, it is 
probably,- as some of his friends declared when it 
•was published (after his death), the work of Henry 
Chettle. Professor Vetter's arguments against 
•Greefie's' authorship {AbJMndl.d. 44len Sammltmg 
fd. d.'Schidmanner, Teubnery 1897) seem to me 

feoadtusivd,' ainaiit.-wrcftddittot be difficult ^tQ-'add to 

-tlietij..ifil ci'ii-'jrrin') .aniflarn: '-.Ij?, iioiol j; 

sfiThfe'textfact -given; however, is interesting: as 
%'hoSvi^g a^'Gon temporary Puritan view of Greene, 
^tid as touchitig upon the li'vi^&''of S^dral''<if 'his 

famous companions. .arrralov 

^Ji.'P. 133 dj I)elphrigus,Qtc. Allusions- to cliar- 

acters in plays and to plays of the tirrie not now 
Ei'dfentified.' ' -'vui v . . . -is^uuA) .■:: 

P. 133 h. thou famous'^ '^Vaitn'^df tragedians, 



Marlowe, who, for the unconventional utterances 
in his plays, especially Tambnrlane, was regarded 
as nothing less than an atheist. In point of fact, 
he was a kind of Unitarian. 

P. 134 a. Machiavellian policy. To the Eliza- 
bethans Niccolo Machiavelli was the devil incar- 
nate, and from his name is said to come the term 
Old Nick. In reahty he merely set forth in his 
treatise The Prince the methods which successful 
rulers used and still use. He recognized their 
immorality and brutalitj^ as clearly as any one. 

perished as ill as Julian, the Emperor Julian the 
Apostate, nephew of Constantine the Great, who 
because of ill-treatment by Christians in his youth 
abjured their religion. He died of a spear-thrust 
in battle. He was one of the stock examples of 
the punishment of atheists. 

young Juvenal, Thomas Nash, the bitterest 
satirist of the age, who was repeatedly referred to 
by that name. 

thojc no less deserving, perhaps George Peele; 
certainly the description fits him. 

P. 134 b. an upstart Crow . . . Johannes fac 
totum ( = Jack-of-aU- trades) . . . Slmke-scene, 
undoubtedly Shakespeare. The Tiger's Jiearf, etc., 
is a parody of 3 Henry VI, I, iv, 137. 

buckram gentlemen, imitation gentlemen. Buck- 
ram was a coarse linen cloth (often stiffened with 
glue or gum). It seems to have been v/orn only 
by the lower classes (see Falstaff's account of the 
"rogues in buckram" who robbed him, i Henry 
IV, II, iv), and was used as a general term of 
contempt: "Thou say (i.e. silk), thou serge, 
nay, thou buckram lord ! " 2 Henry VI, IV, vii, 
27. 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
Hero and Leander 

Pp. 135 ff. This unfinished poem was Mar- 
lowe's last work. He seems to have written only 
two books and a fragment of the third. Seem- 
ingly at his request, his friend Chapman, the trans- 
lator of Homer, finished the poem and published 
it in 1598, five A'ears after Marlowe's death. 

The story of Hero and Leander is taken from a 
Greek poem, attributed to a pre-Homeric legen- 
dary poet named Musasus (1. 52). No genuine 
writings of Musasus, however, are known. Mar- 
lowe's original was written bj'' an unknown author, 
probably in the fifth or sixth century after Christ. 
Of this work, however, INIarlowe used little more 
than the bare outlines ; the imaginative fire and 
strong power of visualization that enter into his 
wonderful pageantry of pictures are as much his 



NOTES 



707 



own as is the rich and musical verse. To appre- 
ciate its splendor, read with it the selection from 
Venus and Adonis (p. 137), in which even Shake- 
speare, writing, as he undoubtedly did on that 
occasion, in a commercial spirit, lags far be- 
hind. 

The First Scstiad. Sestiad is derived from Sestos 
as Iliad from Ilium; hence, Sestiad means a poem 
about Sestos as Iliad a poem about Troy (Ilium). 
But the Elizabethans used both words in the 
plural for the whole work and in the singular for 
each book. 

Marlowe's familiarity with the classics appears 
from many allusions, which may be studied in 
Gayley's Classic Myths or in the special references 
given below with each. 

11. 12-14. Adonis was a huntsman and scorned 
the goddess of love. The outcome of the story as 
told b}- Shakespeare follows on pp. 137 S. 

11. 45-50. Hei-o was so lovely that Nature 
wept because she took more than half of the 
beautj' of the world ; and as a sign of her loss, since 
Hero's time, half the people of the world have 
been black. 

11. 56-58. Jason's quest for the Golden Fleece 
of Colchis and his flight with Medea, the king's 
daughter, are told in Ovid's Metamorphoses, VII, 
1-452, Hcroides, VI, and in William Morris's 
Life a)id Death of Jason. 

1.59. Sphere. See the note on Milton's astron- 
omj'^, p. 717 below. 

P. 136. 1. 65. the while of Pelops' shoulder, 
ivory. Pelops was killed and served as a banquet 
to the gods by his father Tantalus ; but was after- 
wards restored to life. The only part missing, hio 
shoulder, was replaced by one of ivory {Metamor- 
phoses, VI, 403-411). 

U- 73~76. Narcissus, who fell in love with his 
own reflection in a pool and pined away because 
he could not embrace it (Metamorphoses, III, 

339-510)- 

I. 77. ivild Hippolytus, son of the Amazon 
Antiope, ser\'ed Artemis (Diana) ; and was un- 
tamed by love (Ovid, Heroides, IV). 

II. 81-82. Thrace was a mountainous country. 
In classical times mountaineers were called bar- 
barians, as over against the more civilized in- 
habitants of cities. 

11. 101-102. Phaeton, son of Apollo, tried to 
drive his father's chariot; the horses ran away 
with him and almost destroyed the world by 
fire (Metamorphoses, II, 1-400). 

I. 105. Cf. Chapman's Odysseys, p. 146. 

II. 114-115. Ixion's s/taggy-footed race. Ixion 
was the father of the Centaurs, a race of beings 



half-man and half-horse (Metamorphoses, XII, 
2IO-53S)- 

1. 137. Proteus was a sea god, a shape-shifter, 
who could assume aiiy form he wished (cf . Odyssey, 
IV, 384 ff., and Vergil, Georgics, IV, 387-452). 

1.158. turtles' blood. It should be noted that in 
Elizabethan English turtle always means "dove" ; 
it was not until nearly a century later that it was 
applied to the water-tortoise. 

1. 161. Love has two arrows: one, with a 
golden head, which causes successful love; the 
other, with a leaden head, causes unreciprocated 
love; cf. Midsummer Night's Dream, I, i, 170. 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

Venus and Adonis 

Pp. 137 £f. Venus and Adonis was Shake- 
speare's first w^ork to be printed (in 1593) and, in 
his own words, "the first heir of" his "invention." 
It was dedicated to the Earl of Southampton in 
extremely formal and respectful language. That 
it met with his approval is shown by the affec- 
tionate tone of the dedication to him in 1594 of 
The Rape of Lucrece. 

Venus and Adonis became immediatel}^ popular 
and continued so. It went through about a dozen 
editions within the next fifty years. The story 
was taken from Ovid's Aletamorphoses (X, 519- 
739, with details from IV, 271-388, and VIII, 
267-371) — a book familiar to every one who 
went to school in Shakespeare's time — with not 
a little added (perhaps through an intermediary) 
from the Greek pastoral writers. Cf. Andrew 
Lang's Theocritus, Bion ajid Moschus (in the Golden 
Treasury Series), especially The Lament for Adonis 
by Bion and the fifteenth idyl of Theocritus. 

A familiar love story, with the fashionable 
idyllic background, and handled with the utmost 
license, was sure to succeed even though it showed 
little originality and only moderate imaginative 
fire. 

The verse form and some details are borrowed 
from Lodge's Scillacs Metamorphosis (also derived 
from Ovid), pubhshed in 15S9. 

P. 138. U. 1109-1116. Cf. Theocritus, The 
Dead Adonis, in Idyl A^A'A". 

Sonnets 

P. 139 flf. The only edition of Shakespeare's 
sonnets in his lifetime was seemingly unauthorized: 
We do not know for whom they were written or 
whether they are now placed in the order in which 



7o8 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



he meant them to be read. Although the critics 
agree that Nos. I-CXXVI are, for the most part, 
addressed to a young man who was at once patron 
and friend, and CXXVII-CLIV to a dark lady 
with whom the poet was in love, this conclusion is 
based entirely upon internal evidence, and does 
not explain some features of the texts as they 
stand. No attempt to identify the persons men- 
tioned has been universally accepted as convincing. 

The sonnets are very unequal in value, ranging 
from the extravagant commonplaces of con- 
ventional Elizabethan flattery to serious reflec- 
tions of personal experience and opinion. It is 
best to judge each on its own merits without regard 
to the series as a whole. 

In form they belong to the loosely-knit English 
type of three distinct quatrains, with a summariz- 
ing couplet that often has a tacked-on effect. 

The best sonnet writers of the nineteenth 
century — see the examples given below of 
Wordsworth, Keats, the Rossettis, and Mrs. 
Browning — returned to the Italian model. 

XII, I. ID. thou among the wastes of time must 
go, thou must take thy place among things injured 
by time. 

XV, 1. 4. The stars comment upon the unsub- 
stantial forms and events of life by making or 
marring them through their secret influence. 

11. 11-12. Time discusses with Decay how to 
change your youth to age. 

11. 13-14. Warring with Time because of my 
love for you, I, in my verses, give you life as fast 
as he takes it. 

«XVII, 1. II. Cf. what Theseus says of "the 
lunatic, the lover and the poet," Midsummer 
Night's Dream, V, i, 2-17. 

1. 12. stretched metre, exaggerated verse. 

XXIX, 11. 10-12. Cf. Lyly's Spring's Welcome, 
11. 6-8, p. 128, Shakespeare's iirst song from Cymbe- 
line, 1. I, p. 145, and Par. Lost, V, 198. 

P. 140. LV, 1. 1 ff . The traditional idea, which 
goes back to Horace, that a poem, as poetry, will 
live forever, does not necessarily involve any per- 
sonal conceit on the part of the poet. 

1. 4. Than uncared-for gravestone stained by 
Time. 

1. 13. Till the Judgment Day that bids you 
rise from the dead. 

LXIV and LXV are closely connected, and 
should be read together. The first is pessimistic, 
and the second returns to the traditional poetic 
hope. 

• LXIV, 1. 2. Elaborate, expensive, and ancient 
monuments. 

1. 4. Possibly suggested by Horace's monti- 



mentmn are perennius, "a monument more endur- 
ing than brass"; but here eternal modifies slave. 
Mortal rage means, simply, violence that destroys. 
Cf. CVII, 11. 13-14. 

1. 8. Shakespeare regards land as the positive 
element {store = abundance), water as the nega- 
tive {loss) . 

LXV, 1. 2. sad mortality, destruction, not 
limited to human beings, but applied to every- 
thing that exists. 

1. 3. hold a plea, contend successfully. 

1. 4. action, vigor. 

I. 10. Time is supposed to take things from 
this world and deposit them in the oblivion of his 
jewel-chest. 

P. 141. LXXI. Cf. Christina Rossetti's Re- 
member, p. 652. 

LXXIII, 11. 1-4. This is a double metaphor : 
first of his own condition as that of the leafless 
boughs among which no birds now sing; then of 
the condition of those boughs as that of the choir 
of a ruined abbey. At the disestablishment of the 
monasteries by Henry VIII many were stripped 
and ruined and left to decay. These, as Steevens 
points out, would have been familiar and impres- 
sive sights to Shakespeare. 

1.12. The fire is consumed by the burning of the 
fuel which maintains it. 

XCVII, 1. 5. time removed, time of absence. 

II. 4-10. The autumn is represented as ready 
to bring forth the fruit begotten by the spring 
{the prime, 1. 7), but as the spring is dead, the 
autumn is a widow, and consequently the fruit 
hoped for will, when it is brought forth, be or- 
phaned. 

XCVIII, 1. 4. Saturn, the planet whose metal 
is lead, is supposed to govern heaviness and 
melancholy, and therefore stands here for all duU 
and low-spirited creatures. 

XCIX. The first line is introductory; the 
sonnet is complete without it. It is made to fit 
the rhyme scheme of the first quatrain thus; 
6abab. 

1. 7. i.e., have stolen its fragrance, but some 
editors think that color (dark auburn) is meant, 

1. 13. canker, canker-worm. 

P. 142. CVII. Massey explained this as a 
song of triumph at the death of Elizabeth and the 
deliverance of Shakespeare's friend, the Earl of 
Southampton, from imprisonment in the Tower. 
Elizabeth would be the eclipsed mortal moon of 
1. 5. This seems impossible on any hypothesis. 
The reason why the augurs are sad and mock their 
own prediction (1. 6) is certainly that the moon has 
passed through her eclipse and now shines clear 



NOTES 



709 



again ; this could not apply to the death of Eliza- 
beth. Rolfe thinks the moon represents Eliza- 
beth; her survival of the eclipse represents, he 
thinks, the suppression of the Rebellion of Essex 
(1601) ; he also quotes with apparent approval 
Palgrave's suggestion that "the peace completed 
in 1609 might answer to the tone of this sonnet," 
though it does not appear why, if Shakespeare 
wrote as late as 1609, he should speak of an event 
of eight years earlier which had lost all interest. 

But aU such interpretations are excluded by the 
fact that the sonnet is a love sonnet, celebrating 
an ideal love or friendship. Such a love would 
not be affected by the imprisonment of either lover 
or beloved (cf. sonnet CXVI). The subject of 
the sonnet is some threatened and predicted 
estrangement between the friends which has now 
been removed. The eclipse and the endless peace 
are figurative expressions of aspects of the love 
story ; the balmy time of 1. 9 is of the same nature 
and has nothing to do with "the weather at the 
time he writes, " as Rolfe seems to think. Lines 
3, 4, mean "none of these things can set limits to 
the duration of my love (which was falsely sup- 
posed to be nearing its end), because it is true and 
endless." 

CIX, 11. 7-8. Prompt to the time, not changed 
by absence ; so that, coming back as I do, I bring 
my own excuse. 

CX, 11. 2-4. I have played the fool, done vio- 
lence to my own thoughts, sold cheap what I prize 
most, committed grave offences by entertaining 
new affections. Line 2 contains a figure which 
may come from the stage (though household fools 
also wore motley), but U. 7-8, 11-12 show that 
Shakespeare is not talking about his stage career 
but about this temporary interest in new friends, 
which had only made him love the old friend better. 

U. 10-12. I will never again whet my sword on 
newer armor (i.e., on a new friend) in order to test 
an older friend to whom I am bound. 

CXI. This strongly personal sonnet is a pro- 
test against the deterioration in manners and 
character caused by the profession of acting (1. 4). 

CX\T, 11. 2-4. Love is not love if it alters 
when the loved one alters, or turns away (bends to 
remove) as the loved one withdraws. 

II. 5-7. Cf. Spenser's Amorelti, XXIV. 

P. 143. CXL\T. In this splendidly impersonal 
and virile sonnet, Shakespeare gets away from 
convention and expresses, in grim and powerful 
phrasing, a fundamental creed. The soul is the 
citadel of the body {sinful earth) warred upon by 
its own rebellious faculties. Why, as the body 
necessarily has so short a lease of life, should it 



be cultivated at the expense of the soul? Are 
worms to devour all that which you spend upon 
the body and which would feed your soul? Then 
starve your body and feed your soul. Acquire 
ages in heaven {terms divine) by selling worthless 
hours. So shall you cheat death. 



songs from the plays 
Love's Labour's Lost 

P. 143. This is merely a genre picture of winter 
in the country. 

1. 13. crabs, crabapples, which, floating in 
spiced ale, made the dish called "lambs' wool." 

A Midsummer Night's Dream 

This song is sung by a fairy. 

1. 9. pensioners. An allusion to the splendor 
of the dress of the gentlemen pensioners of the 
Queen, of whom Elizabeth, following the custom 
of her father, had fifty in attendance upon her. 
They were chosen for their fine physique and good 
looks. 

As You Like It 

P. 144. The first of these songs is sung by 
Amiens in praise of the free life which the Duke 
and his followers lead in the greenwood. The 
second (also sung by him) recalls the ingratitude 
of those whom the Duke had loved and befriended. 

Hamlet 

P. 145. 1. 3. cockle hat. The cockle shell was 
worn on the hat by pilgrims who had visited the 
shrine of St. James of Compostella in Spain. 
Lovers in the old romances, when forbidden to 
see their sweethearts, often disguised themselves 
as pilgrims to escape recognition. 

The Tempest 

The Sea Dirge is sung by Ariel — the dainty 
invisible spirit commanded bj' Prospero — in the 
hearing of Prince Ferdinand, who supposes his 
father has been drowned in the storm that has 
thrown them on the island. Its beauty is un- 
deniable; its lightness of tone and lack of any 
hint of grief are perhaps due, not only to the in- 
abihty of such a spirit as Ariel to understand 
death, but also to the fact that the father has not 
been drowned but has been conveyed by Ariel 
himself to a place of safety. 



7IO 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



The second song is also sung by Ariel and gives a 
hint of his nature and character. 

GEORGE CHAPMAN 

The Twelfth Book of Homer's 
Odysseys 

Pp. 145 f. At the time when Chapman made 
his translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the 
study of Greek in England was still uncommon. 
Chapman's work is full of errors, but by its vigor 
and picturesqueness it has held its own until this 
day. It was greatly admired by Drj^den, himself 
a good translator, and Dr. Johnson said that Pope 
constantly referred to it in making his version; 
but the same criticism that Bentley, the eighteenth 
century classical scholar, made of Pope holds, in a 
different way, of Chapman — "a very pretty 
poem but not Homer." Pope (cf. p. 290) is too 
abstract, too sophisticated, too regular, for Homer's 
simple concreteness and the big wave-movement 
of his hexameters. Chapman, on the other hand, 
although he is concrete, is not simple. His style 
is full of Elizabethan "conceits," highly com- 
pressed and unnatural figures of speech, as, for 
example, in describing the sirens' song in U. 284- 



"This they gave accent in the sweetest strain 
That ever open'd an enamour'd vein." 

In the simple translation of Butcher and Lang, 
this reads: "So spake they, uttering a sweet 
voice." 

Chapman in his Iliad uses a fourteen-syllabled 
rhj^ming couplet which comes nearer to the big 
swing of the Greek hexameters than the ten- 
syllabled couplet used in the Odyssey; but the 
longer measure also gave him more opportunity 
to get away from the plain directness of the 
original. Keats's sonnet On First Looking into 
Chapman's Homer, p. '478, shows, however, how 
profoundly the range and sweep of Chapman's 
translation impressed one who loved and knew fine 
poetry. 

The Odyssey is an accovmt of the adventures of 
Ulysses (Greek, Odysseus) and his companions, 
and later of himself alone, in his efi'orts to return 
to his home in Ithaca after the destruction of Troy, 
and of the means by which he punished the suitors 
of his wife and regained possession of his kingdom. 
Our selection tells how he managed to hear the 
fatal song of the Syrens and yet to escape in 
safety. He himself tells the story. 



SAMUEL DANIEL 

Pp. 146 &. Daniel's connection with the Sidney 
family — he was tutor to the Countess of Pem- 
broke's son, William Herbert, who became the 
third earl — probably explains his early venture 
into sonneteering. An unauthorized edition of 
some of his Delia sonnets appeared in the appendix 
to Astrophel and Stella, and the following year, 
1592, the series of fifty-five was published, dedi- 
cated to Sidney's sister. 

Daniel's sonnets are aU on conventional themes, 
but his conceptions have individuality and his 
verse has dignity, sonority, and a fine rhythmical 
movement. No. XIX may be contrasted with 
Shakespeare's No. XCIX ; No. LIV with Sidney's 
No. XXXIX and the others on the same topic ; No. 
LV recalls to mind several of Shakespeare's. 

Epistle to the Lady Margaret, 
coltntess of cumberland 

Pp. 147 f. Daniel was tutor from 1595 to 1599 
to Lady Margaret's daughter. Lady Anne Clifford 
(born 1590). He fretted at having to "bide with 
cliildren" when he wished to be tr3dng lofty flights 
of verse, as Spenser, who thought highly of his 
work, had urged him to do. 

This description of the state of a man strong 
in character and confident in his strength shows 
him at his best. 



MICHAEL DRAYTON 

Pp. 148 ff. Draj'ton tried his hand at most of 
the forms of verse popular in his day, and achieved 
more reputation than he has been able to maintain. 

Many students of Shakespeare's sonnets believe 
that Drayton was the rival poet, "the proud full 
sail of [whose] great verse " Shakespeare mentions 
in sonnet LXXXVI. This belief is to some 
extent confirmed by a comoarison of Drayton's 
sonnet XX with Shakespeare's CXXVII-CXLIV. 
Others think the rival poet to have been Chapman. 

Idea 

XXXVII. Compare this with the sonnets on 
Sleep — Daniel's and others. 

LXI. This is one of the most famous sonnets 
ever written; but it is admired probably as much 
for its appeal to common experience as for its 
beauty of expression. 



NOTES 



711 



Ode XII 

To the Camhro-Britans and Their Harp, 
His Ballad of Agincourt 

Pp. 149 f. Cambro-Britans, the Welsh, whose 
national instrument was the harp. For the cir- 
cumstances and leading figures of the battle of 
Agincourt, see Shakespeare's Henry V, especially 
III, v-vii, and IV. 

1. 41. Poiliers (1356) and Cressy (1346), in 
which Henry's great-grandfather, Edward III, 
won amazing victories over the French, might 
well inspirit his men at Agincourt (1415). 

1. 48. the French lilies. The French coat of 
arms was tliree fleurs-de-lys, often called lilies. 

P. 150. 1. 113. St. Crispin's Day. October 
25, the day of the twin saints, Crispinus and 
Crispinianus. See Henry V, IV, iii, 40-67. 

Nymphidia 

The Court of Fairy 

Compare Shakespeare's description of Queen 
]\Iab, Romeo and Juliet, I, iv, 53-69, and of Titania 
and her court, A Midsummer Night's Dream, II 
and III, i, 147-181. The influence of Shakespeare 
appears from 11. 150-152; but Drayton has bor- 
rowed no details, and his form is entirely different. 

FR.\NCIS BACON 

Pp. 150 ff. Bacon's essays are characterized 
by extraordinary compression of thought and 
richness of illustration. In reading them, it is 
necessary often to pause between sentences and 
to expand the thought in order to grasp the full 
meaning. Again, like aU other writers to whom 
Latin was almost as familiar as English (notably 
Sir Thomas Browne and Milton, in this book), 
he uses words derived from the Latin with a sig- 
nificance not commonly given to them at the pres- 
ent day. For example, imposeth (p. 151 a) means 
"impresses itself as authoritative." For this 
reason, it is necessary to study his vocabulary 
with great care. His range of quotation and anec- 
dote is v-er>' great, as will be seen from the follow- 
ing notes. His practice was, indeed, to jot down 
in a note-book whatever struck him as of special 
interest in his thinking or his reading, and these 
notes, classified by subjects and arranged in proper 
order, furnished nearly the whole frame-work of 
his essays. 

On whatever subject Bacon is writing, his ideas 



show the same mixture of observation and shrewd 
common sense. His ideals are all go\'emed by 
considerations of practicability, and he is never 
carried off his feet by imagination or by any sort 
of enthusiasm. 

I. Of Truth 

P. 151 a. masks and mummeries and triumphs. 
The masques, disguisings, and other elaborate 
entertainments at court were usually given in the 
evening by artificial light. 

vimim damonum. Many of the early Chris- 
tians were opposed to Greek and Roman litera- 
ture and especially poetry, not so much because 
it was fiction as because it celebrated the gods. 

The quotation from Lucretius is in his poem De 
rerum natiira, Bk. II , U. i ff . ; that from Mon- 
taigne in his Essais, ii, 18; the prediction at the 
end of this essay is from Luke, xviii : 8. 

VIII. Of Marriage and Single Life 

P. 152 a. In the Odyssey, Bk. V, the nymph 
Calypso offers Ulysses immortality and eternal 
youth if he wiU remain with her. He refuses and 
returns to his old wife Penelope. 

P. 152 b. A young man not yet. The saying 
is ascribed to Thales, one of the Seven Wise ]\Ien 
of Greece. 

XI. Of Great Place 

Pp. 152 £f. Of the Latin quotations, the first 
is from a letter of Cicero's to his friend Marius; 
the second from Seneca's tragedy, Thyestes, 401- 
403 ; the third is Bacon's Latinization of Gene- 
sis, i:3i; the fourth and fifth from Tacitus's 
Historice, I, 49 and 50. 

XVI. Of Atheism 

Pp. 154 f. Of the Latin quotations, the first 
is from Diogenes Laertius, the Greek biographer 
of philosophers (X, 123); the second from a 
sermon by St. Bernard of Clair\''aux ; the last from 
one of Cicero's Orations. 

P. 154 a. The Legend is doubtless The Golden 
Legend {Legenda Aurea), a collection of Legends 
of the saints made by Jacobus de Voragine in the 
thirteenth century; the Talmud is a vast collec- 
tion of stories, decisions, and sayings of Jewish 
Rabbis ; the A Icoran (or Koran) is the sacred book 
of the Mohammedans. 

Leucippus, Democritus, and Epicurus were Greek 



712 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



philosophers who developed the atomic theory of 
matter. The four mutable elements are earth, air, 
fire, and water, of which, in Bacon's day, all 
things were supposed to be made. The immutahle 
fifth essence (quintessence) was supposed to be 
an ethereal substance necessary to the existence 
of things and in a sense the soul of them. The 
theory which Bacon rejects is, in a modified form, 
that now dominant in science. 

P. 154 h. Diagoras and Bion were Greek phi- 
losophers of the fifth and third centuries B.C. ; 
Lucian was a Greek humorist and satirist (120?- 

200? A.D.). 

XXIII. Of Wisdom for a Man's Self 

P. 155 b. The setting of a house on fire to 
roast an egg may have suggested to Charles Lamb 
his amusing Dissertation upon Roast Pig. 

P. 156 a. The deceitful weeping of the croco- 
dile, reported by early travellers and naturalists, 
became proverbial in Shakespeare's day; cf. 2 
Henry VI, III, i, 226. 

Sui amantes sine rivali is loosely quoted from a 
letter of Cicero to his brother Quintus (III, 8, 4). 



XXVII. Of Friendship 

The sentiment quoted in the first sentence is a 
modification of a statement by Aristotle: "He 
who is unable to live in society, or who has no need 
because he is suificient for himself, must be either 
a beast or a god" (The Politics of Aristotle, trans- 
lated by Jowett, I, i, 2). 

falsely and feignedly. Bacon means that the 
stories told of them were not true. Epimenides 
was a Cretan Rip Van Winkle, who slept fifty 
years in a cave and came back with superhuman 
knowledge. Numa Pompilius, the second mythi- 
cal king of Rome, retired into solitude to learn 
wisdom from the nymph Egeria. Empedocles 
threw himself into the crater of ^tna in order to 
seem to disappear like a god, instead of dying like 
a mortal. Apollonius of Tyana was an ascetic 
who was worshipped as a rival of Christ. 

Pp. 157 ff. The stories of Pompey, Ccesar, and 
Themistoclcs are told by Plutarch in his lives of 
those men, and the parable of Pythagoras (p. 157 b) 
is also reported by Plutarch (in a Discourse on the 
Training of Children) ; the anecdotes of the Roman 
emperors are recorded by Suetonius (in his Lives 
of the Ccesars) and Dion Cassius (in his Roman 
History). The famous ma.xim of Heraclitiis (p. 
158 a) is recorded by Diogenes Laertius. 



XLII. Of Youth and Age 

P. 159. The first quotation is from the life of 
Severus in the collection of biographies of the 
Roman emperors known as the Augustan History; 
the second (Enghsh) is from Joel, ii : 28 ; the 
third is from Cicero's Brutus; and the last is a 
paraphrase of a sentence of Livy's History of Rome. 

Cosmus Duke of Florence (15 19-15 74), better 
known as Cosmo the Great, belonged to the family 
of the Medici, famous for their wealth, their political 
power, and their patronage of literature and art. 
Gaston de Fois (or Foix), Due de Nemours (1489- 
15 1 2), was a brilliant young general; after a great 
victory at Ravenna, in 15 12, he was killed while 
pursuing the enemy. 

MINOR POETRY 
Song of Paris and (Enone 

P. 161. EHzabethan lyrics are of two kinds. 
One is the formal, elaborate sonnet, not set to 
music, sometimes a mere tissue of conventional 
sentiments expressed in highly artificial terms, but 
often built around a striking thought. The other 
is the song, — madrigal, canzone, round, rounde- 
lay, etc., — which shows extreme variation in 
form, a minimum of thought, and a maximum of 
musical expression. In fact, the Elizabethan song 
is as near an approach to pure musical sound as 
has ever been made in words. Of this type no 
better example can be given than this roundelay 
(1. 11). It is sung by a man and a woman, first 
turn about and then together. With all the repe- 
titions it contains more than forty lines and only 
sixty-two words. 

Compare the lyrics taken from England's Heli- 
con, pp. 162 ff., and the note on them. 

Farewell to Arms 

The occasion for this poem was the retirement 
of Sir Henry Lee from his oii&ce as queen's cham- 
pion, November 17 (the anniversary of Elizabeth's 
coronation day), 1590. It was sung in a pageant 
presented before the Queen at Westminster. Sir 
Henry Lee, who had held his office ever since Eliza- 
beth's accession, and who had come to be regarded 
as a model of knighthood, went through a ceremony 
of actually taking off his armor and putting on a 
civilian coat and cap, and then presented to the 
Queen his successor, the Earl of Cumberland. 

1. 4. Youth (in years) wanes as youth (the 
young man) increases in age. 



NOTES 



713 



I. 10. age his alms, i.e., age's alms. A pedantic 
affectation common among Elizabethan writers, 
based on the mistaken idea that the possessive 
arose from a contraction of the noun and the 
masculine possessive pronoun. 

The Burning Babe 

Pp. 161 f . No poet ever expressed his life and 
personality more completely in a few words than 
Southwell in this poem. The fiery religious 
zeal that it shows brought him to martyrdom for 
his faith as a Roman Catholic. Ben Jonson said 
that he would willingly have destroyed many of 
his poems to have written The Bunmig Babe. 

ENGLAND'S HELICON 

Pp. 162 £f. The success of Tottel's miscellany 
in 1557 (see note on Wyatt and Surrey, p. 697) 
set the fashion for collections of lyric poetry. 
Tottel's book was in its eighth edition in 1587. 
The Paradise of Dainty Devices, published in 1576, 
was in its eighth edition when England's Helicon 
came out ; and three other similar collections had 
also appeared before that time. 

Undoubtedly the interest shown in lyric verse 
is to be associated with the great cultivation of 
music, which appears in the issue of song books by 
Byrd, Dowland, and other musicians, in the 
large use of songs in plays, and in the popularity 
of masques and pageants with musical accompani- 
ments. 

The Elizabethan songs were all practical, that is, 
they were written to fit the measures of tunes and 
to make immediate appeal to the senses. Conse- 
quentl}' the ideas in them are few and simple 
while the verse forms show infinite variety. Cf. 
note on Peele's Song of Paris and (Enone, above. 

England's Helicon is the best of the poetical 
miscellanies. It contains Ij^ics by Sidney, Spen- 
ser, Drayton, Greene, Lodge, Breton, Peele, the 
Earl of Surrey, Watson, Marlowe, Shakespeare, 
\Mlliam Browne, and other well-known poets. 
Some songs are signed with initials, some with 
the pen-name "Shepherd Tony," many are 
marked Ignoto (unknown). Of the one hundred 
and sixty poems in the collection, more than four- 
fifths deal with the conventional shepherds and 
shepherdesses. 

Phyllida and Corydon 

Sung before Queen Elizabeth, to her great de- 
light, in the entertainment given her, in 1591, 
by the Earl of Hertford. 



As IT Fell upon a Day 

Attributed to Richard Barnfield. It had been 
published twice before, once with music. Barn- 
field published in 1594 the sonnet series entitled 
Cynthia, dedicated to Penelope, Lady Rich, Sid- 
ney's "Stella." 

Phyllida's Love-Call 

P. 163. U. 15-17. Only a short time before. 
Queen Elizabeth had been presented with her 
first pair of knit silk stockings, and was im- 
mensely delighted with them. 

1. 50. the golden ball, the apple of Discord given 
by the shepherd Paris to Venus as the most beauti- 
ful of the three goddesses. Cf. Gayley's Classic 
Myths, p. 285. 

The Shepherd's Description of Love 

Signed S. W. R. (Sir Walter Raleigh) in the edition 
of 1600; but in the extant copies a slip on which 
is printed Ignoto is pasted over the initials. 

Damelus' Song to his Diaphenia 

P. 164. H. C. was probably Henry Constable, 
author of the sonnet series called Diana. 

Rosalind's Madrigal 

From Lodge's romance of that name (cf. p. 129). 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 

P. 165. Marlowe's only known song. 

The Nymph's Reply 

Attributed to Raleigh, but without grounds. 



THE END OF THE RENAIS- 
SANCE 

THOMAS DEKKER 
The Second Three Men's Song 

P. 166. 1. 12. Ring, compass, from an allusion 
of the year 1555 it seemingly means to form a 
circle. Perhaps there should be no comma after 
ring. 



714 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



The Gull's Hornbook 

Pp. 166 S. Dekker's prose work is valuable 
chiefly for its vivid representation of contemporary- 
life. His Gull's Hornbook is a sort of "Booby's 
Primer," ostensibly to teach a young man his 
way about town, incidentally but fundamentally 
to show up the folHes and vices of the time. It is 
of course full of local hits and highly satirical. 

P. 166 b. The Royal Exchange built by Sir 
Thomas Gresham in 1566-1567, and opened by 
Elizabeth in 1571, loomed so large in London hfe 
that the figure is very apt. 

P. 167 a. throne . . . lord's room (place). 
These boxes were on each side of the balcony 
in which scenes in upper rooms were presented. 
Seats there were not as comfortable and did not 
give as good a view as a stool on the stage itself. 

Cambises. In a popular play of that name 
written by Thomas Preston before 1569. 

Persian lock, a fashion affected by the long- 
haired gallants of the time. 

a signed patent to engross the whole commodity 
of censure, a monopoly to control the market of 
criticism. A hit at one of the abuses of the 
time. 

P. 167 h. a mere Fleet-street gentleman, i.e., 
one who lived between the merchants of the 
"city" and the nobility in the Strand, which was 
then the fashionable quarter. 

P. 168 a. counter amongst the poultry, a pun. 
A counter was a debtor's prison. There were 
several of these in London. One stood in the 
street called Poultry (from the fact that it once 
contained a poultry market) . Cf . the puns below 
on sculler and scidlery (p. 168 b) ; on frets, troubles 
and marks on a musical instrument (p. 169) ; and 
on hogshead (p. 169). 

, P. 169 a. Arcadian and Euphuised gentle- 
women. Dekker's hit shows how popular the 
works of Sidney and Lyly had become among 
women of rank. 

BEN JONSON ^ 

Pp. 169 £f. Jonson is perhaps the earliest ex- 
ample in England of the aU-round man of letters 
whose personal influence outweighed the critical 
judgment of his work by his contemporaries. 
Jonson did many things very well, nothing, per- 
haps, supremely well — though it would be hard 
to better some of his lyrics; but because of his 
versatility and his power as a critic, he became the 
outstanding literary figure of his time. See Dry- 
den's tribute, pp. 233 f. 



To THE Memory of my Beloved, Mas- 
ter William Shakespeare 

These lines show that Jonson understood and 
appreciated Shakespeare as fully as any critic who 
has written about him. When a man who loved 
and imitated the classic drama could say that his 
contemporary equaled and surpassed ancient (11. 
31-54) as well as modern dramatists (U. 27-30), 
the praise does honor to both. The tribute to 
Shakespeare's art (U. 55-64), as weU as to his 
natural gifts, is noteworthj^ as a corrective to the 
criticism that Jonson made of him on that ground 
in his Conversations with Drummond of Hawthorn- 
den (Shakespeare Society Publications). 

Cf. Matthew Arnold's sonnet on Shakespeare, 
p. 602. 

JOHN DONNE 

Pp. 171 f. Dr. Donne's peculiar qualities as a 
poet were intellectual and temperamental. He 
played with thoughts as his immediate predeces- 
sors played with concrete images. So doing, he 
initiated a new method, and his method was imi- 
tated by many so-called "metaphysical" seven- 
teenth century poets, among whom must be 
numbered Wither, Quarles, Carew, Suckling, Love- 
lace, MarveU and Cowley. They wrote a few 
poems that will be remembered ; but the trouble 
with most of them was that they insisted upon 
the playing even when they did not have the 
thoughts. Donne, with his restless, intense, 
subtle mind, was sincere, but the others were more 
or less affecting a mode which was not natural to 
them. 

JOHN FLETCHER 

Sweetest Melancholy 

P. 173. Compare with the opening lines of // 
Penseroso, especially 11. i, 2, 12, 31-36, 133-140, 67, 
and 74 of the latter. Note also the metrical re- 
semblance : U. 8-17 of Fletcher's poem are in the 
regular meter of // Penseroso ; the first lines of the 
two poems are identical in movement ; while the 
opening and concluding lines of Fletcher's, taken 
together, may have suggested to Milton the form 
of his Introduction. 

In Fletcher's day the cultivation of melancholy, 
as he describes it in these lines, was a fad of 
young men of fashion (cf. King John, IV, i, 15-17 ; 
and the melancholy Jaques in As You Like It). 
The melancholy invoked by Milton is of an en- 
tirely difliercnt cast. 



NOTES 



715 



FRANCIS BEAUMONT 

P. 174. The difference between the poems of 
Beaumont and those of Fletcher shows two 
strongly opposed types of mind : Fletcher, musical, 
sensuous, almost effeminate; Beaumont, solid 
and reflecti\'e. In fact, Beaumont had no real 
lyric gift ; he simply wrote tolerable verse. 

The interest of the Letter to Jonson is entirely 
in its picture of the gatherings at the Mermaid 
Inn. For an illustration of the kind of wit that 
Beaumont had in mind, see the word contest be- 
tween INIercutio and Romeo, Romeo and Juliet, 
II, iv, 38-106. 

11. 58-65. The meaning is: "My wit has gone 
to seed. I shall take to writing cheap ballads. 
I am getting to like country sports such as telling 
riddles and singing catches. Soon I shall even be 
proud of being able to use long words — so fast 
am I degenerating." For the kind of ballads 
that Beaumont means, see Winter's Tale, IV, iv, 
262-296. In sell bargains (1. 62) he refers to a 
coimtry sport known as the New Fair. 

U. 67-68. Our young men (in Leicestershire, 
where the poem was probably written) know 
little and talk much. 

1. 69. They have vegetable souls, like the 
trees. 

1. 79. Apparent!}^ refers to the finishing of a 
play. The Coxcombe, which Beaumont and Fletcher 
were working on in the summer of 1609. 

WTLLIAM DRUMMOND 

P. 174. Drummond, whose picturesque country 
place at Hawthornden, near Edinburgh, is still 
visited by tourists, was a dilettante who played 
at poetry as he played at science. In his literary 
isolation in Scotland, he continued to imitate the 
Italians after their influence had ceased to be felt 
in England. 

Sonnet 

1. 5. Small, capitalized because it refers to the 
microcosm, small universe, a term commonly ap- 
plied to man, over against the macrocosm, the great 
universe. 

1. 13. this prince. Prince Henry, son of King 
James I ; his death was greatly lamented by 
the English people. 



M.A.DRIGAL I 
Translated from the Italian of Guarini. 



GEORGE WITHER 

Sonnet IV 

P. 175. 1. 14. pelican. According to ancient 
fable the pelican wounded her own breast and fed 
her young with the blood. Because of this, she 
was often used in religious poetry as a type of 
Christ. 

In his own day, Wither was known as a bold 
and insuppressible satirist. But as his satire was 
of temporary and local interest and as his style, 
though vigorous, was simple and often diffuse, 
his satires are no longer read. His lyrics have 
grace and playfiilness and this one, at least, has a 
permanent place in English anthologies. 

WILLIAM BROWNE 
Britannia's Pastorals 

Pp. 176 f . A copy of the first edition of this 
poem with notes written in Milton's handwriting 
points to the most significant fact about Browne, 
that he was a sort of bridge over which pastoral 
poetry passed from Spenser to Milton. It does 
not seem, however, that his influence on Milton 
was of much importance. 

This passage is interesting as a seventeenth 
century attempt at a description of romantic 
nature. 

U. 141-144. Cf. Herrick's C&rinna's Going A- 
Maying (p. 177). 

1. 158. frizzled coats, apparently a conceit for 
foliage, i.e., trees. 

1. 163. end the creek. 0/ is omitted for metrical 
reasons. 

1. 173. thronged. The waters were crowded 
together as the creek grew narrow. The phrase 
is an instance of post-Elizabethan obscure sub- 
tlety. 

On the Countess Dowager of Pem- 
broke 

P. 177. Nash wrote of her in 1591 : "artes do 
adore [her] as a second Miner^'a, and our poets 
extol [her] as the patroness of their invention." 
See notes on Sidney's Arcadia and on Samuel 
Daniel. 

ROBERT HERRICK 

Pp. 177 f. Herrick has, in addition to the 
sweetness and melody of the Elizabethans, a sense 
of proportion and of the fitness of things to which 
they rarely attained. Where they are sponta- 



7i6 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



neous and unrestrained, he has the repose that 
comes with a sense of art. One of the greatest 
charms of his work is the country freshness that 
he managed to get into it from long association 
with Devonshire. Another is an occasional flash 
of imaginative insight that fuses commonplace 
words into an immortal phrase, as when, in de- 
scribing the movement of a woman's silk dress, he 
speaks of "the Hquefaction of her clothes " {Upon 
Julia's Clothes, 1. 3). 

CHERRY-RIPE 

P. 177. Cf. Campion's poem on the same sub- 
ject, p. 162. 

Corinna's Going A-Maying 

The custom of maying in the sixteenth century 
is thus described by Stowe : 

"In -the moneth of May, namely on May day 
in the morning, every man, except impediment, 
would walke into the sweete meadowes and greene 
woods, there to re Joyce their spirites with the 
beauty and savour of sweete flowers, and with 
the harmony of birds, praysing God in their kind, 
and for example hereof Edward Hall hath noted, 
that K. Henry the eight, as in the 3. of his raigne, 
and divers other yeares, so namely in the seaventh 
of his raigne on May day in the morning with 
Queene Katheren his wife, accompanied with many 
Lords and Ladies, rode a Maying from Greenwitch 
to the high ground of Shooters hiU, where as they 
passed by the way, they espied a companie of 
taU yeomen cloathed all in Greene, with greene 
whoodes [hoods], and with bowes and arrowes- 
to the number of 200. One being their Chieftaine 
was called Robin Hoode, who required the king 
and his companie to stay and see his men shoote, 
whereunto the king graunting, Rohin Hoode 
whistled, and all the 200. Archers shot off, loosing 
■aU at once, and when he whistled againe, they 
likewise shot againe, their arrowes whistled by 
craft of the head, so that the noyse was straunge 
and loude, which greatly delighted the King, 
Queene and their Companie. Moreover, this 
Robin Hoode desired the King & Queene with their 
retinue to enter the greene wood, where, in har- 
bours made of boughes, and decked with flowers, 
they were set and served plentifully with venison 
and wine, by Robin Hoode and his meynie, to 
their great contentment, and had other Pageants 
and pastimes as ye may reade in my saide Authour. 
I iind also that in the moneth of May, the Citizens 
of London of all estates, lightly in every Parish, or 



sometimes tv/o or three parishes jojming togither 
had their severall mayings, and did fetch in 
Maypoles, with diverse warlike shewes, with good 
Archers, Morice dauncers, and other devices for 
pastime all the day long, and towards the Evening 
they had stage playes, and Bonefiers in the 
streetes." 

1. 4. fresh-quilted. A homely country touch, 
with a world of associations of cottage life. 

U. 30-31. Each field is so full of people, and 
each street is so fuU of boughs. 

GEORGE HERBERT 

Pp. 178 f . Like Herrick, Herbert was a clergy- 
man, but while Herrick was in feeling almost a 
pagan, Herbert was almost a saint. It seems ex- 
traordinary that he should have been the brother 
of the brilliant and v/orldly philosopher. Lord 
Herbert of Cherbur}^, and the friend of the subtle 
and thought-tormenting Dr. Donne, and still 
have developed his serene and unique genius. He 
is the poet who most nearly represents the early 
Christian ideal of ethics, the surrender of worldly 
things to the life of the spirit, yet without the 
mystic rapture of Vaughan and Crashaw. 

IZAAK WALTON 

Pp. 179 ff. The ironmonger who owned "half 
a shop" in Fleet Street, the nonagenarian whose 
life stretched across from Marlowe to Pope, the 
simple-minded gentleman who thought that he 
knew all about iishing and who somehow got him- 
self the friendship of the most interesting literary 
men of his day, achieved fame seemingly without 
trying. There are critics who say that he made 
mistakes in his theory of fishing, but there are few 
readers who deny the spell of perfect naturalness 
and simphcity and the sense of being in the open 
air that comes when we begin to walk with him up 
Tottenliam HiU. His Compleat Angler went 
through five editions between 1653 ^^'^ 1676 — a 
fact which shows that England had other interests 
besides deposing and restoring kings and perse- 
cuting people for their religious beliefs. 

THOMAS CAREW 

P. 181. See the note on Waller, Carew and 
others, p. 717 below. 

SIR THOMAS BROWNE 

Pp. 181 S. When the diarist Evelyn visited 
Sir Thomas Browne at Norwich, he found the 



NOTES 



717 



house and garden of "that famous scholar and 
physitian," full of "rarities, and that of the best 
collections, especially medails, books, plants, and 
natural things." His mind likewise was stocked 
with "rarities" of thought. His curiosity in re- 
gard to out-of-the-way matters is illustrated by his 
Hydriotaphia: Urn-Burial; or, a Discourse of the 
Sepulchral Urns Lately Found in Norfolk. 

The occasion of this discourse was the discovery 
in 1658 of between forty and fifty burial urns which 
Sir Thomas beheved to be of Romans or Roman- 
ized Britons. His interest in the matter led him 
to write a discussion of the different methods of 
burial; and to conclude that the desire of the 
ancients to "subsist in lasting monuments, to live 
in their productions, to exist in their names . . . 
is nothing in the metaphj^sics of true belief." 

Sir Thomas Browne is impressive because of a 
certain breadth of wisdom due to much reading 
and reflection, and perhaps even more because of 
the slow and rhythmical pacing of his rich and 
elaborate style. 

EDMUND WALLER 

Pp. 184 f. As Waller was the most notable of 
the love poets of the seventeenth century, and his 
long life almost covered the century, we may 
group with him others who distinguished them- 
selves especially for this same kind of lyric verse, 
Carew and Suckling, and later, Lovelace, Sedley, 
and Rochester. 

Waller's "sweetness," as Pope's criticism pos- 
sibly implies {Essay on Criticism, II, 361, p. 275), 
at once made and marred his work. He lacks both 
ideas and virility, but such short lyrics as On a 
Girdle and Go, Lovely Rose, are pearls without a 
flaw. 

Carew (p. 181) is somewhat violent in his im- 
agery and the mental conceptions behind it. The 
idea of his Song is that his lady is the source of 
roses, the nightingale's song, the stars, and that 
she is the Phoenix's nest in which that unique and 
immortal bird is born again (cf. note on Crashaw's 
Hymn, 1. 46, p. 724). This is a perfect case of a 
"metaphysical" conceit, that is, an extravagance 
of imagery based upon an elaborately ingenious 
idea. 

Suckling (p. 214) is at the opposite pole from 
Carew, being simple, natural, and genial. 

Lovelace (p. 218) is the noblest of the group, 
because the most sincere. Though not as simple 
as Waller and Sedley, he is not as sentimental. 
He lacks Suckling's humor and Rochester's wit, but 
he has an earnestness and a quaintness all his own. 



Rochester (p. 244) has, like Suckling, a sense of 
humor, but he is sharp rather than sunny, to a 
degree not illustrated by the selections given. 

Sedley (p. 243) is merely prettily sentimental, 
and falls far short of Waller. 

The Story of Phcebus and Daphne 
Applied 

P. 184. Thyrsis is Waller himself who professes 
adoration for a lady whom he calls Sacharissa 
(Dorothy, Countess of Sunderland) ; but the 
passion seems to have been purely literary. The 
classical myth here "appHed" is told in Ovid's 
Metamorphoses, I, 452-567 (cf. also Gayley's Clas- 
sic Myths, pp. 138-141). 

THOMAS FULLER 

Pp. 185 ff. Thomas Fuller was famous, both as 
preacher and as writer, for his quips and ingenious 
conceits. He had learning and native wit, and 
he came at a time when elaborate combinations of 
the two were allowed and praised. 

The volume from which our selection is taken is 
a miscellaneous collection of sketches and moral 
essays. 

JOHN MILTON 

Pp. 189 ff . While all Milton's early work gives 
abundant evidence of his love of the classics and his 
study of classic methods, only Lycidas, among the 
poems here quoted, may be said to approach a clas- 
sic model in form and in substance. The titles 
U Allegro and II Penseroso show Italian influence, 
while the use of nature in both poems is as English 
as Herrick's ; II Penseroso is decidedly romantic, 
after the first thirty lines even mediasvaUy roman- 
tic, in treatment, while On the Morning of Christ's 
Nativity is a precursor of Paradise Lost in its blend- 
ing of Greek and Hebraic elements. 

On the Morning of Cphiist's Nativity 

This ode was begim, as IMilton himself says in 
one of his Latin elegies (VI, 11. Si-90), on Christ- 
mas Day. The irregular metre, with its wonderful 
interlacing of short and long lines, gives an ex- 
traordinary efifect as of leaping flames. 

11. 45-60. IMilton emphasizes the idea that the 
Roman peace throughout the world at the time of 
Christ's birth was in preparation for the coming 
of the Prince of Peace. 

1. 48. the turning spliere, perhaps specifically 
the Primimi ^Mobile. Milton knew the Coper- 



7i8 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



nican system of astronomy, which regards the 
earth as one of a system of planets revolving round 
the sun ; but in his poetry he preferred to make 
use of the older system known as the Ptolemaic. 
As this system is constantly referred to in our 
earlier literature, it may be explained here briefly : 

1. The earth is the centre of the mundane universe. 

2. Surrounding it at different distances, and re- 
volving on it as a centre, are several hollow trans- 
parent spheres. 3. In the first seven of these 
are placed the seven planets, one planet in the 
surface of each sphere, in the following order: 
Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Sat- 
urn. Each planet is carried about by the motion 
of its own sphere but ha,s also its own motion in 
the surface of its sphere. 4. The eighth hollow 
sphere is that of the fixed stars, which are immova- 
bly set in its surface. 5. Outside of these eight 
spheres, according to the older view, was a ninth 
sphere, called the Primum Mobile or First Mover, 
which revolved round the earth daily from east 
to west and caused the succession of day and 
night. Its motion was so powerful and its adjust- 
ment to the other spheres of such a nature that 
it carried them all about with it in its diurnal 
revolution, though each of them had an independ- 
ent motion from west to east and each of the 
planets was free to move within its sphere or orb, 
as has just been said. As the spheres were placed 
at harmonic intervals, they were supposed to make 
a divine music, inaudible by human ears. 6. By 
Milton's time this simple system had been found 
inadequate to account for all the motions of the 
heavenly bodies and a crystalline sphere had been 
added (between the Primum Mobile and the fixed 
stars), to account for certain irregularities (see 
Par. Lost, III, 481-483). 7. The Mundane Uni- 
verse, consisting of this system of spheres, is sur- 
rounded on all sides by Chaos (unorganized mat- 
ter). 8. The Mundane Universe is suspended 
from Heaven (or the Empyrean), which lies above 
it, by a golden chain (see Tennyson's Morte 
D'Arthur, 2^4.-2^5). 9. Below the Mundane Uni- 
verse, and distant from Heaven by three times the 
radius of that Universe, lies Hell (cf. Par. Lost, 
I, 72-4). 

1. 68. birds of calm, halcyons, fabulous birds, 
identified with kingfishers, supposed to nest on the 
sea for seven days before and after the winter 
solstice. At this time the sea was always calm. 
For the story of Ceyx and Halcyone, see Ovid, 
Metamorphoses, XI, 410-748, or Gayley's Classic 
Myths, pp. 194-196. Cf. also Theocritus, Idyls, 
VII (the Song of Lycidas). 

P. 190. 1. 89. Pan, here Christ. The identi- 



fication came about through the character of each 
as a shepherd (cf. John, x : 11). 

11. 125-132. The music of the spheres. It was 
a common idea that this could be heard by the 
pure of heart. In Arcades (11. 61-73), Milton 
follows Plato in imagining the Muses (celestial 
sirens), as making the music of the spheres. 

P. 191. 11. 173-180. The pagan religion has 
come to an end. Professor Shorey suggests that 
the form Delphos (1. 178) may be due to Milton's 
recollection of the striking passage in ^schylus' 
Eumenides, 1. 16, in which the King of Delphi is 
called Delphos. He also points out that Sir 
Thomas Browne uses Delphos for Delphi. Mar- 
lowe has Colchos for Colchis. 

11. 181-188. The mourning is for the death of 
Pan, here symbolical of paganism, not of Christ, 
as in 1. 89. 

P. 192. 11.229-231. Certainly a grotesque pic- 
ture. 

L'Allegro and II Penseroso 

Pp. 192 £f. Although these companion pieces are 
almost balanced in structure, Milton's preference 
for the thoughtful mood appears in two ways. He 
adds to II Penseroso (U. 167-174) a desire for a 
life of continued solitude which carries him outside 
his plan of giving a day for each mood ; and fur- 
thermore, in V Allegro he is throughout walking 
apart, merely the observer of the life of joy ; not 
for a moment is he "admitted" to be of the 
"crew" of Mirth. 

The plan of each poem is : (i) an introduction 
banishing the opposite mood ; (2) the origin of the 
mood; (3) a day lived in each mood; (4) the 
poet's attitude. 

In L'Allegro, the tj'pical day begins with the 
lark and a sunshiny early morning in the country ; 
continues with a rustic dinner and work in the 
fields, followed by country sports and tales ; and 
ends with a description of evening life in cities, 
with social gatherings, marriages, comedies, and 
Lydian (secular) music. 

In II Penseroso, it begins with the nightingale, a 
moonlight walk, the study of astronomy and 
philosophy, the reading of tragedies and romances ; 
continues with a stormy morning, a woodland 
walk ; and ends with religious music in a cathedral. 

It is interesting to work out minutely the bal- 
ancing of detail ; also to observe the difference in 
treatment due to Milton's personal preference. 
It is obvious that he is not interested in Nature 
except as a means of reflecting his moods; and 
equally clear that he is thoroughly interested in 



NOTES 



719 



music for its own sake. Cf. L' Allegro, 11. 136-144, 
// Penseroso, 11. 161-166, and Paradise Lost, I, 
550-559 (in which he describes martial music). 
No one but a musician could have written so fully 
and so technically. Lines 139-144 of L' Allegro 
exactly describe the elaborations of the seven- 
teenth century songs. Milton played both the 
bass viol and the organ. Observe also the 
prominence he ascribes to music in his scheme 
of education, p. 209. 

Metrically, each poem begins with a ten-line 
introduction in alternate short and long lines, 
and then drops into the regular beat of the eight- 
syllabled iambic couplet. There is, however, a great 
difference in effect caused by the omission in more 
than a third of the lines of U Allegro of the unac- 
cented first syllable, which gives a tripping tro- 
chaic movement (cf., for example, 11. 25-34, and 11. 
69-70, which are actually trochaic). In // Pen- 
seroso this unaccented syllable is kept in more 
than seven-eighths of the lines and gives a slower, 
more regular movement (cf., for example, U. 155- 
176). 

U Allegro 

11. 33-68. One long, loosely constructed sen- 
tence, the effect of which is to give a hurried, 
almost breathless movement, to come (1. 45) 
is parallel with singing (1. 42) and begin (1. 41), 
though it can scarcely be said to depend upon 
hear (1. 41) ; while To hear and listening (1. 53) and 
•walking (1. 57) are parallel and refer to the poet. 

P. 193. 1. 83. Corydon and Thyrsis, neighbors, 
as in Vergil, Eclogues, VII (where they are 
called "Arcades ambo"). Phillis (1. 86), regu- 
larly associated with the former in pastoral verse 
and praised by both in the Eclogue just cited, is 
waiting on them, Thestylis here is apparently a 
woman's name, as in Theocritus, Idyls, II, and 
Vergil, Eclogues, II. 

1. 102. fairy Mab. See Drayton's Nymphidia, 
p. 150, and the note on it. 

1. 104. Apparently a confusion of will o' the 
wisp ("ignis fatuus") which appeared outdoors, 
and Friar Rush, a demonic apparition that 
haunted houses; the drudging goblin is Puck or 
Robin Goodfellow. See A Midsummer Night's 
Dream, II, i, 16-57. 

I. 136. soft Lydian airs, voluptuous music. 

II. 145-150. Orpheus by his music persuaded 
Pluto, the god of Hades, to give him back his wife 
Eurj^dice, from the dead. But he broke Pluto's 
condition that he should not look back at her until 
they had left Hades, and so lost her again. Cf. 
Gayley's Classic Myths, pp. 185-188, Ovid, Meta- 



morphoses, X, 1-77, and Vergil, Georgics, IV, 453- 
506. 

II Penseroso 

The germ of this poem is in Fletcher's Sweetest 
Melancholy, p. 173 (cf. note on that poem). 

P. 194. 11. 83-84. The bellman was a night 
watchman who passed through the streets ringing 
a bell and caUing out the hours and the weather. 
He also pronounced a blessing on the sleeping city. 

I. 88. thrice-great Hermes. Hermes Trismegis- 
tus, the Greek god Hermes (Roman Mercury) who 
came to be identified with the Eg}T3tian Thoth, 
and was the reputed author of magical, alchemical, 
and astrological works. 

II. 99-100. The three great subjects of the 
classical drama, of which Milton was a devoted 
admirer. That he cared less for the EHzabethan 
drama appears from 11. 101-102. 

I. 104. See note on Hero and Leander, p. 706, 
above. 

II. 109-115. Chaucer. The persons named are 
in the unfinished Squire's Tale, to which Milton 
refers perhaps as a type of pure romance. 

P. 195. U. 1 16-120. Probably The Faerie 
Queene which Milton admired and imitated. 

11. 156-160. The characteristic features of 
Gothic architecture : the cloister, which is always 
attached to a cathedral, the vaulted roof, pillars 
massive and strong, and stained-glass windows. 
But on this point Milton was not in accord with the 
taste of the times. About thirty years after he 
wrote these lines, Sir Christopher Wren rebuilt 
many of the churches destroyed by the Great 
Fire of London, in a very different style of archi- 
tecture ; and it was not until a century later that 
a hking for the Gothic was revived. 

Lycidas 

Contributed for the memorial volume of Latin 
poems published by the friends of Edward King, 
whose death is referred to in the note at the begin- 
ning of the poem. Milton had been five years 
away from Cambridge, with which King was still 
connected at the time of his death. There is no 
evidence, external or internal, of any special 
friendship between the men ; and almost half the 
poem is given to IMilton's own ideas and affairs 
(U. 19-22 and 64-84), a lament over the corruption 
of the church (II. 114-131), and elaborate embellish- 
ments in imitation both of classical elegiasts and 
of Spenser. 

The framework of Lycidas, following the general 
conventions of the Greek pastoral, is as follows : 



720 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



1. Invocation to laurels, ivy, and myrtles, of 
which the poet is to make a wreath for Lycidas 
(11. 1-14). These plants may be, as some think, 
emblems of poetry, learning, and beauty, but they 
have no such significance when used by Theocritus 
and Vergil. 

2. Invocation to the Muses (11. 15-18), and a 
personal digression (U. 19-22). 

3. Story of the poet's association with Lycidas 
(U. 23-36). 

4. His mourning for Lycidas (U. 37-49). 

5. Appeal to the nymphs of the district in which 
Lycidas died, and allusion to the death of Orpheus 
(11. 50-63), with a digression on the lack of reward 
for poetry (U. 64-84). 

6. Address to the Arethusa (a river in Sicily, 
where Theocritus lived) and the Mincio (in Italy, 
near Vergil's birthplace), as introductory to the 
story of Triton (1. 89), who has asked about the 
mishap and brought answer from ^olus (Hip- 
potades, 1. 96) that there was no wind, that the 
sea-nymphs (1. 99) were playing about, and that 
the fault lay in the ship (11. 100-102). 

7. The lament of Camus (god of the river 
Cam), representing Cambridge and St. Peter (11. 
109-110), representing the church (11. 103-113). 
Digression on the corruption of the church (11. 114- 

131)- 

8. Address to the pastoral streams of Arcadia 
and Sicily to bid the valleys bring aU their 
flowers for Lycidas (11. 132-151). 

9. Lament for the body tossed about the seas 
(U. 152-164). 

ID. Comfort that Lycidas is in heaven (11. 165- 

185). 

II. The shepherd's conclusion (U. 186-193). 

Milton's choice of the name Lycidas may 
have been determined by several considerations. 
Shepherds of that name are celebrated by the chief 
pastoral poets, Theocritus {Idyls, VII), Bion 
{Idyls, II ^nd VI), and Vergil {Eclogues, IX). 
Moreover, Lycidas is spoken of in Theocritus' 
Idyl as "the best of men" and is addressed thus : 
"Dear Lycidas, they all say that thou among 
herdsmen, yea and among reapers, art far the chief- 
est flute-player;" and in Bion's sixth Idyl the 
poet says : "If I sing of any other, mortal or im- 
mortal, then falters my tongue, and sings no longer 
as of old, but if again to Love and Lycidas I sing, 
then gladly from my lips flows forth the voice of 
song." 

P. 196. 1. 36. Damcetas is a shepherd in Theoc- 
ritus, Idyls, VI and in Vergil, Eclogues, II, III ; in 
Eclogues, 11, 36-38, Corydon says : "A flute is mine, 
with seven unequal hemlock stalks, which Damcetas 



once gave me as a present, and dying said: 'That 
flute has now for its master you, second to me 
alone.' " 

U- 50-55- Imitated from Theocritus, Bion, 
Moschus, and Vergil. 

U. 5S-63. The Maenads (Bacchantes) tore him 
to pieces for indifference to women after the death 
of Eurydice (Ovid, Metamorphoses, XI, 1-84) 
and Vergil, Georgics, IV, 507-527). 

11. 68-69. Conventional expressions for a Ufe 
of ease and pleasure. Amaryllis is one of the 
nymphs most praised in Theocritus and Vergil (esp. 
Idyls, III, I, and Eclogues, I, 4 f.) ; Neasra is men- 
tioned by Vergil, Eclogues, III. 

1.75. UindFury. The Fate, Atropos, is called 
a Fury, because she has slain Lycidas. 

1. 77. In similar manner Phoebus touches the 
ear of the poet and reproves him in Vergil, Eclogti.es, 

VI, 3 f. 

U. 85, 132. The story of the river god Alpheus 
and the nymph Arethusa is charmingly told in the 
seventh Idyl of Moschus, and at greater length in 
Ovid, Metamorphoses, V, 572-661. Less simple is 
Shelley's Arethusa. The river Arethusa is invoked 
by Theocritus, Moschus, and Vergil as being to 
pastoral poetry and poets what the fountain Hip- 
pocrene was to epic poetry and poets, see espe- 
cially Moschus, Idyls, III, where Homer and 
Bion are compared. 

1. 106. The hyacinth, on the leaves of which 
are marks said to be AI, AI (alas) ; cf . Moschus, 
Idyls, III, "Now thou hyacinth, whisper the let- 
ters on thee graven, and add a deeper ai ai to 
thy petals; he is dead, the beautiful singer." 

P. 197. 11. 130-131. Three interpretations have 
been given : 

1. The axe of the Bible {Matthew, iii : 10, 
Ltike, iii: 9) which cuts down the unrighteous — 
identified with the executioner's axe. 

2. St. Michael's two-handed sword, which 
finally overcame Satan when "with huge two- 
handed sway Brandisht aloft the horrid edge came 
down Wide wasting" {Par. Lost, VI, 251-253). 

3. Parliament, with its two Houses, which Mil- 
ton hoped would check the evils of episcopacy. 

I. 132. Alpheus is invoked as the lover of Are- 
thusa, see Moschus, Idyls, VII. Alpheus and the 
Sicilian ]\Iuse (Arethusa) are called on to return 
after the digression and resume the pastoral 
lament. The "dread voice" is the voice of de- 
nunciation that has just shrunk the pastoral 
stream of verse. 

II. 159-162. In his History of Engla^td, Milton 
had told a "fable" of the wrestling match between 
a British hero Corineus and a giant whom he over- 



NOTES 



721 



came and hurled into the sea off the Cornish coast. 
The name Belleriis, used here instead of Corineus, 
seems to be coined from Bellerium, the Roman 
name of Land's End. St. Michael is supposed to 
have appeared in a vision, seated on a crag of 
the rocky island now called St. Michael's Mount. 
Milton conceives him as still sitting there and 
looking toward Spain (Namancos and Bayona, 
near Cape Finisterre). In 1. 163, Milton bids him 
look back towards England and sympathize. 

1. 189. Doric, i.e., pastoral. Applied to the 
Sicilian poets, who were of Dorian extraction, 
and characterizing their aifectation of simplicity. 

1. 190. Perhaps an elaboration of what Vergil 
says of the shadows of the hills in Eclogues, I, 84, 
and II, 67, with a reminiscence of Hamlet's ex- 
pression in Hamlet II, ii, 270. 

I. 191. western bay, perhaps Chester Bay, from 
which King had sailed. 



lar to the one just disestabhshed, and the sonnet 
is a plea to Cromwell to prevent this. 
11. 13-14. Compare Lycidas, 11. 119-131. 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 

Written in 1655 after the Duke of Savoy and 
Prince of Piedmont had cruelly massacred his 
Protestant subjects, the Waldenses or Vaudois, for 
refusing to turn Roman Catholic. Cromwell as 
Lord-Protector protested so strongly that the 
Vaudois were afterward allowed their own worship. 
Milton, as Cromwell's secretary, wrote the protests 
of the State; this sonnet expresses his personal 
views. 

On His Blindness 

P. 199. 1. 2. He was forty-five years old when 
he lost his sight completely. 



Sonnets 

P. 198. Milton's sonnets return to the Italian 
form, but in matter they are, for the most part, 
absolutely original, and a direct expression of 
strong personal feeling. On Milton's relation to 
the earlier sonneteers, cf. Wordsworth's Scorn 
Not the Sonnet, p. 396. 



When the Assault was Intended to 
the City 

Written in November, 1642, when an attack on 
London by the Royalist forces was expected. As 
Milton was an ardent Parliamentarian pamphlet- 
eer, his house, just outside one of the city gates, 
was in danger. The original title read : "On his 
dore when y^ city expected an assault," as if the 
sonnet had been really intended as a defence. 

1. 13. A chorus from the Electra of Euripides, 
recited by a ministrel before the conquerors of 
Athens, caused them to spare the city. 

To THE Lord General Cromwell, 
May, 1652 

Cromwell had completed a series of victories 
over the Royalists on the river Darwen, and at 
Dunbar and Worcester, as a result of which 
Charles II was driven into exile. Meanwhile, the 
committee named in the subtitle was proposing 
religious reconstruction. Milton feared that the 
Presbyterians would establish a state system simi- 



To Cyriack Skinner 

1. II. His blindness had been hastened by his 
work, Defensio Prima pro Poptilo Anglicano, 165 1, 
in reply to Salmasius, a Dutch professor who 
attacked the Commonwealth. 



Paradise Lost 

The thorough fusion in Milton of the spirit of 
the Renaissance, the love of classical themes and 
treatment, and the spirit of Puritanism, the 
struggle towards a higher ethical plane by means 
of a revival of Hebraism, is unique in English liter- 
ature. His avowed purpose to write "Things un- 
attempted yet in prose or rime" (1. 16), in order 
to "justify the ways of God to men" (1. 26), is 
equalled in its daring only by the plan of Dante's 
Divina Commedia. His poetical achievement, 
however, is quite apart from his theological pur- 
pose, and lies in his marvellous power of reproduc- 
ing in sound and rhythm the visions that came to 
his imagination, and in the tremendous swing and 
wonderful flexibility of his blank verse. Note 
how he gets variety by inverting his sentence order, 
as, for instance, in 11. 44-47, and by varjang the 
number of stressed syllables in a line, as, for ex- 
ample, in 11. 209-215. Cf. Gray's appreciation of 
Milton in The Progress of Poesy, II. 95-102, p. 318. 

Milton's classical training and his many years 
of handling official correspondence in Latin made 
him so famiUar with that language that he con- 
tinually uses words derived from the Latin in a 
sense fully warranted by their origin but un- 
common in English. For example, in 1. 2, mortal 



722 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



has the meaning deadly, not the more usual sense 
human; in 1. 187, ojffend means injure, not anger. 
For this reason Milton's vocabulary must be 
studied with the greatest care if his meaning is to 
be fully understood. 

IL 1-6. The subject of the poem is stated at 
once, as in the opening lines of the Iliad and the 
Mneid. 

P. 201. 11. 197-209. The first example of the 
elaboratel}^ developed classical simile. For others, 
see 11. 230-238, 302-313, 338-346, 551-559, 768- 
775, 780-792. 

P. 202.- 11. 288-290. Galileo with the telescope 
discovered the uneven surface of the moon. 
Fesole, or Fiesole, is a village three miles from 
Florence, and Valdarno is the vaUey of the river 
Arno, which flows through Florence. This is a 
personal reminiscence. Milton visited Galileo 
who lived at Arcetri, just outside Florence, and 
later described him as "a prisoner of the Inquisi- 
tion for thinking in astronomy otherwise than the 
Franciscan and Dominican licensers thought." 
Here speaks the author of the Areopagitica. 

Pp. 204 f. U. 392-521. Of these one hundred 
and thirty lines given up to descriptions of Satan's 
host, only seven name Egyptian gods (U. 476-482), 
and fourteen Greek (11. 508-521). More than a 
hundred Hues are devoted to the various Semitic 
gods that appear in the Old Testament. Perhaps 
Milton's early love of the Greek deities kept him 
from over-emphasizing their transformation into 
devils ; but, in any case, the Semitic gods are more 
in harmony with his theme, and after nearly 
twenty years of association with men who thought 
and talked in terms of the Old Testament, he would 
naturally have drawn most of his material from 
that source. Some passages contain scarcely a 
word not found in the Bible. For instance, U. 396- 
422 are put together and fused out of I Kings, xi: 
5,7; II Kings, xxiii : 4-14 ; // Samuel, xii : 26-27 ; 
Judges, xi : 13, and 19-33 ; Isaiah, xv-xvi ; Jere- 
miah, xlviii ; Numbers, xxv : 1-5 ; Dent., xxxii : 49. 
Lines 437-446 describe the idolatry of Solomon as 
told in I Kings, xi : 4-8 ; and in Jeremiah, vii : 18. 
Lines 446-45 7 tell about the worship of Thammuz 
(who is identified with the Greek Adonis, 1. 450) 
as it was revealed to Ezekiel {Ezekiel, viii : 6-14). 
Lines 457-466 refer to the overthrow of Dagon by 
the ark of God as told in I Samuel, v. Lines 467- 
471 tell of the leper, Naaman the Syrian, II Kings, 
v : 1-18 ; and lines 471-476 of the idolatry of King 
Ahaz, // Kings, xvi : 7-18. Lines 482-489 refer 
to the worship of the golden calf {Exod., xxxii : i- 
6 ; cf. xi : 2), Jeroboam's Calves (/ Kings, xii), and 
to the slaying of the first-born in Eg>^t (Exod., 



xii : 29, 51). Lines 490-505 refer to the sins of the 
sons of EH (7 Samuel, ii : 12, 22), to the purposed 
outrage in Sodom (Gen., xix : 4-1 1), and that per- 
petrated at Gibeah (Judges, xix : 22-28). In 1. 508 
Milton connects the Ionian gods with the Old 
Testament (cf. Gen., x : 2). 

P. 206. 11. 575-576. Cf. 11. 780-781. The 
pygmies were supposed to have been 3^ inches 
tall. Their war with the cranes is mentioned by 
Homer, Aristotle, Ovid, and other writers. 

U- 576-577. Phlegra, in Thrace; according to 
Pindar the scene of the battle between the gods 
and the giants. 

U. 580-581. King Arthur and his Round 
Table. 

11. 582-587. Places celebrated in French and 
Italian epics and romances of Charlemagne and 
his knights: Aspramont, in Limburg; Montau- 
ban, in Languedoc; Trebisond, in Cappadocia; 
Biserta, in Tunis. The defeat alluded to was at 
Roncesvaux, a pass in the Pj'renees, in 778. 
Milton is wrong in saying that " Charlemain with 
all his peerage fell"; the fact seems to have been 
that his rearguard was attacked and routed by 
Basque mountaineers. The story was introduced 
into literature in the Chanson de Roland, an Anglo- 
Norman epic of the eleventh century, although 
baUads on the subject were smig earlier. William 
the Conqueror's minstrel, Taillefer, chanted a 
song of Roland as he went into the battle of Hast- 
ings (Senlac). This Roland, who in the Chanson 
is represented as Charlemagne's nephew and the 
hero of Roncesvaux, became one of the chief 
figures in the mediaeval French epics. As Orlando 
he became in Italy the hero of the famous poems 
of Ariosto and Boiardo. His name was also 
introduced into English literature and tradition 
(cf. Browning's poem, p. 556, the title of which 
comes from an old song alluded to in King Lear, 
III, iv, 187). Fo^^toffl^^^'a, modern Fuenterrabia, 
is probably introduced for the beauty of the name 
itself. It is many miles from Roncesvaux, but 
far more musical than Burguete, which is geograph- 
ically correct. 

Milton's Prose 

Pp. 208 £f. Milton's prose has more movement 
and color than Bacon's, more vigor and less studied 
elaboration than Browne's. He writes as a prac- 
tical man whose mind is burdened with what 
he has to say. His long j^ears of secretarial work 
for Cromwell, although they may scarcely be 
said to have moulded his EngHsh prose stjde, had 
the effect of keeping him in good fighting trim. 



NOTES 



723 



Of Education 

Milton's essay on Education is a small tract of 
eight pages. It was published in 1644 in response 
to a request for his views from his friend Samuel 
Hartlib, a man of a good Polish family who had 
come to England about 1628 and amid all the civil 
strife of the time had devoted himself to scientific 
studies for the improvement of education, agricul- 
ture, and manufactures. Milton's plan of study, 
as set forth in his tractate, is too ambitious for all 
but students of extraordinary abilities, but it is 
noteworthy that, like Hartlib's, his conception of 
education was distinctly modern. Although him- 
self a great classical scholar and linguist, he treats 
of the languages as tools, instruments for helping 
the student to a knowledge of things, and suggests 
that most of them can be learned incidentally in 
odd moments of leisure. He emphasizes the study 
of the sciences and of the arts (particularly music) ; 
and he lays great stress upon training students as 
men who are to bear a responsible part in the life 
and government of the nation. The section on 
Exercise shows that, although he makes httle pro- 
vision for play, — aside from the recreation of 
music, — he believed in the cultivation of the 
body as well as of the mind. But in this he was 
in harmony with the general ideals of the Renais- 
sance. 

Areopagitica 

Pp. 210 flf. June 14, 1643, Parliament ap- 
pointed various committees to control the licens- 
ing of books. This restriction of the freedom of 
the press was due partly to the desire of the Pres- 
byterians in power to prevent such publications as 
Milton's own pamphlet on divorce, for example, 
and partly to the effort of the Stationers' Company 
(the organization of printers and publishers) to 
protect their copyrights. Milton was called to 
account in 1644 for disregarding the new regula- 
tions, and November 24 of that year he pub- 
lished the Areopagitica, itself unlicensed. The 
title means: matters befitting the high court of 
the Areopagus, the famous Athenian tribunal, 
here, of course, referring to Parliament. It is 
easj- to see that the theme was one after Milton's 
own heart. 

P. 210 a. Cadmus sowed, at Athene's com- 
mand, the teeth of a dragon that he had slain and 
so obtained a crop of armed men to help him with 
the building of Thebes. Cf. Ovid's Metamor- 
phoses, III, 1-137. A similar story is told of 
Jason. 

P. 210 b. tliose confused seeds which were im- 



posed on Psyche. Psyche had fallen into the hands 
of Venus, who punished her, for having won the ' 
love of Cupid, by making her separate seeds of 
wheat, millet, poppy, vetches, lentils, and beans, 
mixed aU together. She was to place each kind of 
seed in a separate heap and to finish the task by 
evening. As Psyche sat in despair, an ant took 
pity on her and summoning the whole tribe of ants, 
accomplished the work within the time set. The 
story of Cupid and Psyche is told in The Golderi 
Ass of Apuleius, Bks. IV-VI. 

P. 212 a. the old philosophy of this island. 
There was a theory that the Pj^thagorean and Zoro- 
astrian doctrines were derived from the wisdom 
of the Druids, the priesthood of the early Britons. 

as far as the mountainous borders of Russia 
and beyond the Hercynian wilderness. The moun- 
tains bordering Transylvania are a part of the 
Carpathians. The Hercynian wilderness was a 
mountainous tract of forest land in southern and 
central Germany (the name survives in Harz and 
Erzgebirge), many miles to the northeast of 
Transylvania. But Milton's geography is vague 
and rhetorical ; he cared more for the sonority and 
associations of a geographical name than for its 
exact significance. 

P. 212 6. muing her mighty youth, etc. Re- 
newing her youth as an eagle renews its feathers 
by moulting. In mediaeval bird-fable the eagle's 
keen sight was supposed to be actually kindled 
and her youth renewed by flying up near to the 
sun, as Milton says. See the Middle English 
"Bestiary" in Emerson's Middle English Reader, 
or in Morris and Skeat's Specimens of Early Eng- 
lish. In Milton's figure the sun is truth ; in the 
Middle English poem the sun is God and the eagle 
is the soul. 

P. 213 a. Ye cannot make us, etc. You cannot 
make us again as we were before you gave . us 
liberty. We, with our finer ideals, are the result 
of your own high ideals in the past, and to undo 
your good work now would be like a re\"ersion to 
that barbarous ancient law which permitted par- 
ents to kill their own children. If you did, who 
would stand up for you and urge others to do so ? 
Not such patriots as rose against illegal taxation. 

Coat and conduct, the clothing and con\'eyance 
of troops. On this ground taxes were unjustly 
levied. 

his four nobles of Danegell, ship-money. Dauegelt 
means literally Dane-money, and in Saxon times 
was a tax levied to protect England against the 
invasions of the Danes. It is not clear why 
Milton should have specified four nobles {26s. 
Sd.). 



724 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Lord Brook. Robert, second Lord Brooke, 
' cousin and heir of Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, 
the friend of Sidney and Spenser. Milton tells 
the chief facts about him. He was killed storm- 
ing Lichfield, Jan. 7, 1643. The book men- 
tioned is : A discourse opening the nature of that 
Episcopacie which is exercised in England. 
Wherein, ivith all Humility, are represented some 
considerations tending to the much desired Peace 
and long expected Reformation of this our Mother 
Church. 

P. 214 a. old Proteus. Cf. note on Hero and 
Leander, 1. 137, and especially Vergil, Georgics, 

IV, 387-414. 

SIR JOHN SUCKLING 
Cf. note on Waller, p. 717. :. 

RICHARD CRASHAW 

In the Holy Nativity of our Lord 
God 

Crashaw at his best is full of intense religious 
fire combined with some degree of Milton's povi^er 
of visualization ; but he has a subtlety quite un- 
Mil tonic and an extravag/j_ice of imagery that 
sometimes mars his work. ,See, for instance, 1. 87, 
describing the Virgin's breast, 1. 90, her double 
nature; also 11. 91-93, describing courtiers, es- 
pecially the extraordinary iigure in 1. 93. It is 
interesting to compare Crashaw's Hymn not 
merely with Milton's, but with the simplicity of the 
early Christmas carols and Southwell's Burning 
Babe, pp. 92-94 and 161 above. 

11. 15-16. Observe that the shepherds have 
conventional classical names. 

p. 215. 1. 46. The phoenix is, because of its 
uniqueness, a frequent symbol of Christ in early 
Christian poetry. According to fable, the phoe- 
nix lives five hundred years, and, when it feels the 
time of its death approaching, gathers spices and 
fragrant woods, of which it builds a nest ; it then 
sets fire to the nest and is consumed with it, but 
comes out from the ashes a young phoenix, new and 
yet the same. As the phoenix builds the nest for 
its own rebirth, so Christ himself chose where he 
would be born. 

JEREMY TAYLOR 

Pp. 216 f . Jeremy Taylor was a master of elab- 
orate and involved prose rhythms and as such will 
always retain his place in the history of English 



literature. Whether his fondness for themes of 
decay and death was due to a morbid liking for 
the subjects themselves, or to the value which 
religious teachers in general at that time attached 
to the contemplation of physical corruption, or 
whether such themes offered a specially favorable 
opportunity for lyrical movements in prose ending 
in minor cadences, may admit of discussion. Cer- 
tainl}?^ one hears even in the most soaring strains 
of his eloquence the ground tone of the futility 
and vanity of life. 

SIR JOHN DENHAM 

P. 218. Denham was the first Enghsh poet 
after the Restoration who set out to be delib- 
erately descriptive. To-day he seems colorless, 
but he was greatly admired in his own and the 
succeeding age, not so much for the descriptions 
themselves as for his moralization of his theme. 
See Pope's Essay on Criticism, II, 361. 

RICHARD LOVELACE 

Cf. note on WaUer, p. 717. 

The Grasshopper 

Cf. Keats's sonnet The Grasshopper and the 
Cricket, p. 478. 

ABRAHAM COWLEY 

P. 219. Cowle3''s fame was greatest in his life- 
time. His contemporaries buried him in West- 
minster Abbey by the side of Chaucer. But 
almost at once reaction set in, and he came to 
be recognized for what he was, a good verse- 
artisan but one of the most shallow and artificial 
thinkers among the followers of Donne. It is 
supposed that it was his precocity which Milton 
contrasted with his own late and slow develop- 
ment (as it seemed to him) in the sonnet On his 
Having Arrived at the Age of Tiventy-three (see es- 
pecially 1. 8) . 

ANDREW MARVELL 

Pp. 219 f. As Cowley is associated with the 
Stuart court, so is MarveU with Cromwell and the 
Protectorate. The vigor so striking in his work 
as a satirist and pamplileteer stiffens his lyrics 
and makes them to-day much fresher and more 
interesting than Cowley's work. His fancies are 
original and often quaint. 



NOTES 



725 



The Garden 

P. 220. 1. 32. And out of the reed he made 
his flute. Cf. note on Waller's The Story of 
Phcehits and Dapline Applied, p. 717. 

II. 43-44. The idea that the mind contains an 
image of each external thing is a modification of 
Platonism. 

To HIS Coy Mistress 

Addison, in his Hilpa and Shalum (p. 269), 
developed the idea of this amusing extravaganza 
in great detail. 

HENRY VAUGHAN 

P. 221. A Welsh imitator of Herbert, and the 
most purely mystic of English poets. He was 
practically forgotten when Wordsworth redis- 
covered him. His influence on the Ode on the 
Intimations of Immortality (p. 391) is noticeable. 
It may be a question how far Wordsworth has im- 
proved upon his simple model, The Retreat. 

The Timber 

This is a fanciful conceit which is redeemed from 
absurdity b}' the strength of the feeling that per- 
vades it. 

The tree is pictured first as alive in the forest 
(U. 1-8), then as wood built into a house (11. 9-12), 
which creaks in a storm (1. 13-16) ; and this "re- 
sentment after death" is supposed to be a survival 
of the old enmity between the tree and the winds 
(11. 17-20). 



THE RESTORATION 

JOHN DRYDEN 

Pp. 222 ft. Dryden was to the men of letters of 
the time of Charles II about what Ben Jonson was 
to those of Charles I — the dominant literary 
figure, yet without supreme talent in either prose 
or verse. He left a large body of work, of which 
the prose shows him to have been possessed of a 
kind of ample common sense, strikingly evinced, 
for example, in the Essay of Dramatic Poesy, 
while the verse has a large, easy movement with- 
out the fire and force of the best of the Elizabethans. 
The heroic couplet he developed and popularized 
to a degree that made it the chief vehicle of narra- 
tive poetry for the next half century (cf. Gray, 
The Progress of Poesy, 11. 103-111, p. 318). 



Dryden's satire is effective partly because of its 
lack of exaggeration and heat, its tone of well- 
bred superiority and amused self-possession, and 
partly because of its clearness, its rapidity, and its 
ease of movement. It was well fitted to be read and 
discussed and enjoyed by the miscellaneous assem- 
blies in the coffee-houses (see p. 5x6), and it is 
still his chief credential to a high place in the 
history of English literature. 

Absalom and Achitophel 

Pp. 222 f. July 2, 1681, the Earl of Shaftes- 
bury was sent to the Tower. He was the leader 
of the movement to have the Roman Catholic 
Duke of York barred from the succession, and the 
iUegitimate Duke of Monmouth recognized as 
heir to Charles II. Dryden's satire, which was 
not improbably written at the King's suggestion, 
was published only a few da3^s before Shaftesbury's 
indictment and, although it did not prevent his 
acquittal, had an enormous popular success. 

The use of the biblical story of David and Absa- 
lom must have appealed even to the Dissenting 
partj', who thought in Hebraic terms, the more 
so as Shaftesbury had been dubbed Achitophel 
and Monmouth Absalom before the poem was writ- 
ten. This fact suggc ts that Dryden was shrewd 
enough to f oUow in th 2 wake of popular imagina- 
tion. 

In the second selection, Zimri (1. 544) is the 
notorious Duke of Buckingham, against whom 
Dryden had a personal grudge for ridicuHng him 
in the famous burlesque called The Rehearsal. 

The Hind and the Panther 

Pp. 223 f. A religious satire in the form of a 
beast-fable, written after Dryden had become con- 
verted to Roman Catholicism. The key to the 
allegory is : 

Hind — the Church of Rome. 

Panther — the Church of England. 

Bear — the Independents. 

Quaking Hare — the Quakers. 

Ape — the Free-thinkers. 

Lion — the Court party, perhaps including the 
King. 

Boar — the Anabaptists. 

Reynard the Fox — the Unitarians, called 
Arians in the time of Athanasius, and Socinians 
after the early sixteenth century. 

11. 13-16. Caledonian. Not Scottish, but Brit- 
ish. The reference is to the Roman Catholic 
martyrs. 



726 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Alexander's Feast 

Pp. 224 £E. Dryden's odes are cold and artificial, 
but remarkable for their sustained adaptation of 
sound and rhythm to produce musical quality. 

For Pope's eulogy of this poem, see the Essay 
on Criticism, II, 374-383. 

1. 9. According to tradition Alexander was in- 
duced by Thais to set fire to the capital Persepolis. 

I. 20. Timotheus. A famous x^thenian musi- 
cian who, however, died just before Alexander 
was born. 

P. 225. 11. 75-83. The particular force of 
this passage is that Alexander himself had con- 
quered Darius in a series of hard-fought battles, 
and that his own memory would necessarily 
strengthen the impression which the musician 
wished to produce in his mind. 

II. 97-9S. Cf. U Allegro, U. 13S-150 (p- 193) • 
P. 226. 11. 161-165. St. Cecilia, a Roman 

martyr of the third century, is credited with the 
development of sacred music. Line 162 refers to 
her supposed invention of the organ. 



Essay or Dramatic Poesy 

Pp. 226 ff. This is at once an authoritative 
treatment of a big literary problem, a summary 
of dramatic criticism for an age, and a monument 
of common sense. The subject of debate is the 
respective merits of the classic (including the 
French), and the romantic (especially the English) 
ideals of the drama. Dryden presents each side 
with a fine balance and discrimination, but is 
obviously in sympathy with the English ideal. 

The four talkers are Eugenius (? Lord Buck- 
hurst, later Earl of Dorset, himself a keen critic, 
to whom the essay was dedicated), Crites (? Sir 
Robert Howard, author of some successful plays), 
Lisideius (Sir Charles Sedley, a well-known poet 
and wit, — the anagram of Sidleius makes this 
identification certain), and Neander (Dryden him- 
self). To give informality to their discussion, the 
friends are represented as on a pleasure trip in a 
barge on the river. The supposed date of the 
excursion is June 3, 1665, when the Dutch and 
English fleets were engaged in battle; but the 
setting is, of course, a mere device for making the 
presentation of all sides of the question more con- 
vincing and more entertaining. 

P. 233 a. Mr. Hales of Eton, John Hales, a 
famous scholar of bis day. It is said that in an 
actual debate in Hales's chamber at Eton, to 
which many "persons of wit and quahty" were 
invited, his opponents produced from a large 



number of authors the most striking expressions 
of many various subjects, and that he immediately 
produced from Shakespeare a better expression of 
each. 

SAMUEL PEPYS 

Pp. 234 flf. The Diary of Samuel Pepys is prob- 
ably the most honest and unsophisticated self- 
revelation ever given to the world. This is due 
partly to the fact that Pepys did not suppose that 
it would ever be read by any one but himself, and 
partly to an intellectual clearness and candor which 
enabled him to describe his actions and feehngs 
without self-deception. Other autobiographies 
— even the most famous — have, without excep- 
tion, been written with half an eye on the public ; 
either the author has, consciously or half-con- 
sciously, posed to excite admiration for his clever- 
ness or to shock by his unconventionalities, or 
he has become secretive at the very moment when 
he was beginning to be most interesting. But 
Pepys shows himself exactly as he was — an ex- 
traordinarily human mixture of worldliness and 
religion, of loyalty and intrigue, of jealousy, im- 
morality, good-heartedness, pettiness, generosity, 
weakness, and substantial personal worth. Yet 
the reader would judge unjustly who estimated 
Pepys's character solely on the basis of the Diary. 
He was in his own day regarded as a model 
of propriety and respectability and a man of un- 
usual business capacity. He may be said, indeed, 
with little exaggeration, to have created the Eng- 
lish navy : when he became Secretar\' to the Gen- 
erals of the Fleet, the x\dmiralty Ofiice was prac- 
tically without organization ; before the close of 
his career he had organized it and, as a recent Lord 
of the Admiralty says, provided it with "the 
principal rules and establishments in present use." 
That he was not altogether averse to what we now 
call "graft," is true; but in an age of universal 
bribery he was a notably honest and honorable 
official, and he never allowed his private interests 
to cause injury or loss to the service. No other 
document of any sort gives us so fuU and varied 
and vivid an account of the social life and pursuits 
of the Restoration period ; Pepys is often ungram- 
matical, but he is never dull in manner or unpro- 
vided with interesting material. 

The carelessness of his style is due in no small 
measure to the nature of his book. He wrote for 
his own eye alone, using a s3-stem of shorthand 
which was not deciphered until 1825. That he 
was a man of cultivation is proved by the societj^ 
in which he moved, by his interest in music and the 
drama, by the valuable library of books and 



NOTES 



727 



prints which he accumulated and bequeathed to 
Magdalene College, Cambridge, by his interest 
in the Royal Society, by the academic honors 
conferred upon him by the universities, and by 
his official writings. 

SAMUEL BUTLER 

Pp. 237 f. For an account of his career, see 
Oldham's Satire, p. 238, 11. 175-190. Butler 
himself wrote a quatrain saying that Charles II 
was never without his Hndibras. 



JOHN OLDLL\M 
A Satire Dissuading from Poetry 

P. 238. The passage quoted illustrates the 
distressing financial condition of writers in the time 
between the decaj' of the SA^stem of private patron- 
age and the development of business relations 
with publishers which made it possible for authors 
to live upon the results of their labor. The term 
" Grub Street," given to writers who are struggling 
for a bare existence, arose during this time from the 
name of a street in which many of the hack writers 
actually lived. 

JOHN LOCKE 

The Conduct of the Understanding 

Pp. 238 f. John Locke first extended the prin- 
ciples of the inductive method in philosophy into 
the field of mental phenomena. By his discussion 
of the nature and origin of ideas and the necessary 
limits of human knowledge, he introduced, not 
only into philosophy, but into the common think- 
ing of educated men conceptions which have been 
fruitful ever since. Locke is also notable as a 
pioneer in the cause of civil and religious liberty 
and in more rational methods of education. 

His style is not distinguished, but it has the great 
merits of clearness and of intelligibility to the 
general reader. 

JOHN BUNYAN 

Pp. 239 flf. Written in an age of subtleties and 
extravagances of style. Banyan's prose is so simple 
and straightforward that children to-day can 
understand and enjoy it. A naturally vivid imagi- 
nation strengthened by keen observation of life, 
intense religious feeling quickened by persecu- 
tion, and much reading of the Bible are some of 
the factors that entered into the creation of his 
masterpiece, The Pilgrim's Progress. 



P. 241 h. Vanity Fair. If instead of the alle- 
gorical Vanity, we substitute Stourbridge, or South- 
wark, or the name of some other town, we find 
in this passage a vivid and accurate description of 
the old-time fair, with only slight exaggeration 
for the purpose of the allegory. Fairs lasted 
usually only a day, or a few days, although at 
Stourbridge, on the outskirts of Cambridge, 
where a fair was held in September, after the har- 
vest was in, it continued for three weeks. At such 
a fair every article used in England could be 
bought, and merchandise was imported from the 
Continent and the Far East. As Bunyan shows, 
there were also associated with the bartering all 
sorts of amusements, and much license and crime 
developed. Cf. Ben Jonson's amusing play, 
Bartholomew Fair. 

MINOR LYRISTS 

Pp. 243 f. See the discussion under WaUer, 
p. 717. 



THE CLASSICAL AGE 

DANIEL DEFOE 

Pp. 245 flf. Defoe had the t\-pe of mind, the 
training, and the experience that make a success- 
ful newspaper man. His invincible curiositj^ and 
love of experiment, his willingness to take risks, 
his argumentative ability, his instinct for what the 
people think and want, his memory for details, 
and his marvelous ability to add circumstantial 
evidence to make his fictions convincing, his tal- 
ent as a "story-teller," and his keen eye to the main 
chance commercially — all these qualities would 
have helped him to success under any conditions ; 
and, considering his time and his temperament, he 
made a considerable figure. He was not an origi- 
nator, but by reason of his lucid and forceful 
English, he was a good disseminator of current 
ideas. His project for the education of women, 
for instance, was not original, but it reflects the 
most advanced thought of his time on the subject, 
and in a way that could not have failed to interest 
a wide public. The selection does not show De- 
foe's peculiar genius for making fiction read like 
fact, but it does show him as a man able to make 
English serve his ends. 

JONATHAN SWIFT 

Pp. 248 ff. Swift's satire is supreme by virtue 
of his style and his constructive imagination. The 



728 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



latter shows itself chiefly in his ability to assume 
a certain attitude toward a problem or a situation 
and carry out this attitude to its logical conse- 
quences in even the minutest details. Thus in 
Gulliver's Travels he shows human life as looked 
at successively by beings smaller than men, by 
beings larger than men, and by beings of other 
standards and ideals. In his Modest Proposal he 
emphasizes the low value set on human life — on 
the lives of children in Ireland — by assuming that 
they are worth only what they wiU fetch in the 
market, and consistently pushing that assumption 
to its logical but horrible consequences. The 
effectiveness of his method depends upon the fact 
that, whereas in most of our thinking inherited 
views and conventional opinions on particular 
points rise up to prevent us from developing any 
principle with relentless logic, this method pre- 
sents a principle under such a form that our 
inherited views and conventional reactions are 
not aroused until after we have committed our- 
selves to what the simple logic of the principle 
implies. 

His style is devoid of grace and charm because 
it is so set upon practical results and so direct and 
simple. He uses words with an exact sense of 
their intellectual values and force rarely equalled ; 
but his clearness and simplicity are deceptive. A 
second meaning lurks always beneath the plain 
and simple surface. 

A Tale of a Tub 

Pp. 248 flf. Swift himself explains his title 
thus: 

"The wits of the present age being so very 
numerous and penetrating, it seems the grandees 
of Church and State begin to fall under horrible 
apprehensions lest these gentlemen, during the 
intervals of a long peace, should find leisure to 
pick holes in the weak sides of religion and govern- 
ment. To prevent which, there has been much 
thought employed of late upon certain projects for 
taking off the force and edges of those formidable 
inquirers from canvassing and reasoning upon 
such delicate points. . . . To this end, at a 
grand committee, some days ago, this important 
discovery was made by a certain curious and re- 
fined observer, that seamen have a custom when 
they meet a Whale to fling him out an empty Tub, 
by way of amusement, to divert him from laying 
violent hands upon the Ship. . . . The Ship in 
danger is easily understood to be its old antit3'pe, 
the commonwealth." But this ex-planation is a 
part of Swift's jest; "a tale of a tub" had long 



been a proverbial expression for an absurd or 
nonsensical story. 

The treatise as a whole is a satire on the three 
great branches of the Christian Church : the 
Catholic (represented by Peter), the Church of the 
Reformation, including the English and the 
Lutheran branches (represented by Martin, 
i.e., Luther), and the Presbyterians, ' Inde- 
pendents and other Dissenters (represented by 
Jack, i.e., Calvin). The coats represent Primitive 
Christianity as delivered by Christ to his follow- 
ers. The successive sections of the main satire 
describe allegorically the various changes which 
have been made in Christian doctrine and insti- 
tutions from time to time. The section given in 
this volume is devoted entirely to the history of 
the Church before the split caused by the Reforma- 
tion. A later section tells how Peter, claiming 
to be the oldest, assumed authority and kicked his 
brothers out of the house which he had taken pos- 
session of (see p. 252, last paragraph) ; and other 
sections narrate the adventures and deeds of. the 
brothers after their separation. 

That this satire should have given great offence 
to Protestants as well as to Catholics and effec- 
tually prevented Swift from ever attaining such a 
rank and position in the English Church as his 
intellectual abiHty clearly entitled him to, is not 
to be wondered at. It has been said that he was 
more favorable to Martin — the Church of Eng- 
land — than to the others ; but no good Church 
of England man can have been pleased with the 
treatment Martin receives, especially in the brief 
section entitled The History of Martin which Swift 
added in some editions of the work. The fact is 
that every deviation from Primitive Christianity 
is represented as arbitrary, fraudulent, and ludi- 
crous. 

Some details of the allegory may assist the 
reader : 

The seven years of obedience and the travels and 
exploits (p. 248 a) refer to the early centuries and 
the spreading of Christianity in foreign lands. 
The three ladies with whom the brothers fell in 
love (p. 248 b) are covetousness, ambition, and 
pride, the great vices which caused the first 
corruptions of the Church ; and the social climb- 
ing (p. 248 b) represents the rise of Christian- 
ity to dominant power in the Roman Empire. 
The whole of p. 249 — in which readers of 
Carlyle will recognize the germ of his Clothes 
Philosophy in Sartor Resartus — is a general 
satire on mankind for its worship of exter- 
nals, such as rank, wealth, etc., and at the 
same time a special satire on the Church for the 



NOTES 



729 



development of an elaborate hierarchy and elab- 
orate ceremonies. The idol sitting crosslegged 
(249 a) is in primary intention a tailor and second- 
arily, perhaps, the Pope, the origin of whose 
dignity and title some deduced from the Roman 
system of religion. Hell (ibid.) was a term ap- 
plied in Swift's day to a box beneath the tailor's 
work-bench into which scraps were thrown, and 
also, say the satirists, such pieces of cloth as the 
tailor wished to steal from his customers. I do 
not understand the symbolism of the goose or of 
the yard-stick and the needle (ibid.). The 
shoulder-knots (p. 250 b) and the gold lace (p. 
251 a) are symbolical of the additions made to 
the simple doctrines of early Christianity, and the 
discussions are a satire on the methods by which 
authority for these innovations was adduced. 
The nuncupatory will (ibid.) is tradition, to which 
the Cathohcs allow great authority. The flame- 
colored satin (p. 251 b) is the doctrine of Pur- 
gatory, which, according to views in vogue in 
Swift's day, had already appeared in Jewish rab- 
binical doctrine (my Lord C ) and in Moham- 
medanism (Sir J. W.) . The advice " to take care of 
fire and put out their candles before they went to 
sleep" (ibid.) means to shun heU and, in order to 
do so, to subdue and extinguish their lusts. The 
codicil (ibid.) figures the Apocryphal books of the 
Bible, and the dog-keeper is said to be an allusion 
to the Apocrjqjhal book of Tobit. The inter- 
pretation of "fringe" as "broom-stick" (p. 252 a) 
alludes to mediaeval methods of interpreting 
scripture. The embroidered figures (ibid.) are 
images of Christ and the saints. The strong 
box in which the will was locked up (p. 252 b) 
signifies the Greek and Latin languages, and the 
power of adding clauses (ibid.) to the will signifies 
the Pope's power to issue bulls and decretals. 
The lord whose house was usurped (ibid.) means 
the Emperor Constantine, from whom the Church 
was said to have received the donation of St. 
Peter's patrimony, the foundation of the temporal 
power of the Church. 

A Modest Proposal 

Pp. 253 f. Written in Swift's bitterest mood, 
to show the terrible condition of the poor in Ire- 
land, and the utter heartlessness of the English 
in dealing with the situation. The terrific force 
of the satire is due largely to the matter-of-fact 
handling of details in a proposition subversive of 
all civilization. Some simple-minded persons have 
failed to understand Swift's irony and supposed 
him to be really in favor of the plan he advocates. 



JOSEPH ADDISON AND RICHARD STEELE 

Pp. 254 flf. Addison and Steele are as com- 
monly thought of as inseparable as are Beaumont 
and Fletcher, and the two are as different as the 
earlier pair. Addison is alv/ays cool, level-headed, 
with a keen eye for the humorous side of fife, and 
an occasional flight of fancy. Steele is usualh'' 
hot-headed and warm-hearted, inclined to preach 
and to sentimentalize, at times rather in the 
manner of Thackeray. These differences are very 
evident in the passages chosen. Both writers 
owe much of their charm to their ease and unaf- 
fectedness, and to the sense of leisure — the play 
element — that pervades their work. 

In No. 10 of the Spectator, Addison is at his 
best, chatting with his readers as if they were all 
personal friends ; in No. 26, he is the man of taste 
(cf. Sir Thomas Browne on a similar theme, pp. 
181-184, above) ; in No. 98, he is the satirist, amus- ■ 
ing yet never sharp ; in No. 159 and Nos. 584-585, 
he turns his imagination into Oriental fields and 
produces phantasies which show that even the 
most classical age has its romantic moods. 

In No. 95 of the Taller and No. 11 of the Specta- 
tor, Steele shows himself as a warm-hearted senti- 
mentalist; in No. 167 of the Tatler, as a critic and 
philanthropist ; and in No. 264, as a genial humor- 
ist. 

The Campaign 

P. 262. Addison was asked to celebrate in 
verse the Battle of Blenheim for the sake of help- 
ing the political party with which the Duke of 
Marlborough was connected. When he produced 
his Campaign, Godolphin, Marlborough's son-in- 
law, and the other leaders were so pleased that 
they gave him a political post made vacant bj^ the 
death of John Locke, the philosopher (see p. 238). 
Later, as the poem was an immediate and pro- 
noimced success, they made him under-secretary 
of state. One of the most admired passages was 
the simile of the angel, 11. 287-292, which taken in 
connection with a terrible storm that passed 
over England in November, 1 704, was obvious and 
commonplace enough to hit the popular fancy. 
I have quoted a short passage from the work as a 
good specimen of utilitarian verse. To-day it is 
of historical value only. 

HILPA AND SHALUM 

Pp. 269 ff. The idea of this extravaganza was 
perhaps suggested by Marvell's poem, To His Coy 
Mistress, p. 220. 



730 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



MATTHEW PRIOR 

P. 272. Although Prior lived well into the 
Classical Age, he, like Swift, began to write while 
Dryden was still at the height of his povvrer. His 
first production, indeed, was a parody, — such as 
any clever school boy might write, — • written in 
collaboration with Charles Montague (later Earl 
of Halifax), upon Dryden's The Hind and the 
Panther. It was entitled The Hind and the Panther 
Transversed to the Story of the Country Mouse 
and the City Mouse and began : 

"A milk-white mouse, immortal and unchanged, 
Fed on soft cheese and o'er the dairy ranged : 
Without unspotted, innocent within. 
She feared no danger, for she knew no gin." 

Later he wrote a successful travesty of Boileau's 
Pindaric ode in praise of Louis XIV. Most of 
his writing was called out by some special occasion 
and is distinguished by playfulness and wit, 
as are the brief selections here chosen to represent 
him. That he was capable of more serious efforts 
is shown by his Carmen Scecidare, an ode in 
praise of King William, but his life was devoted 
chiefly to politics and diplomacy. 

ALEXANDER POPE 

Pp. 273 ff. Pope was avowedly the pupil of 
Dryden, but within his inore limited field, he far 
excelled his master. His immediate success was 
due not only to the fact that he voiced most per- 
fectly the predominant spirit of the cultivated 
classes of the age in which he lived — the age of 
obedience to rule, and worship of form — bvit also 
to his remarkable faculty, however unconscious, 
of advertising himself by means of a host of friends 
and an even greater host of rivals and foes. His 
enduring success is based upon qualities very dif- 
ferent from those so admired by his contemporaries. 
His ideas in criticism, which they regarded as in- 
fallible axioms, seem to us partly commonplace, 
and partly false; his theory of metaphysics, 
which they regarded with admiring awe, we smile 
at as superficial, and even so, as borrowed from 
Bolingbroke ; his satires we are likely to read 
with half-impatient amusement, because they are 
so largely works of personal spite, and so often 
ascribe to his enemies qualities which they did not 
possess. But with all his glib superficiality and 
his petty malice. Pope has two qualities more 
highly developed perhaps than they are found in 
any other English poet : one is almost inexhaus- 



tible wit, which spices his dullest subjects and his 
most objectionable satires ; the other is an amaz- 
ing instinct for the minor perfections of form. 

An Essay on Criticism 

I, U. 68-91. The doctrine that creative artists 
should take Nature as their guide is one of the 
most astonishing doctrines of the critical theory of 
Pope and his fellows — the so-called classicists ; 
for it seems to us that this is precisely the thing 
which they did not do, and the thing by doing 
which the leaders of romanticism, Thomson, 
Cowper, Wordsworth and others, introduced new 
subjects and new methods into English hterature. 
The difficulty is cleared up, however, when we 
learn (from 11. 88-89, 126, 135, and especially 
139-140) that the way to "follow Nature" is, not 
to observe things as they are, but to imitate and 
defer to the "ancients" — Homer (124), Vergil 
(129-130), and Aristotle (138). 

That this official doctrine did not entirely satisfy 
Pope's native impulses may be seen from 11. 146- 
155, where he represents Pegasus, the winged 
horse of poesy, as boldly deviating "from the 
common track." See also the romantic senti- 
ments expressed in Elo'isa to Ahelard. In land- 
scape gardening Pope's tastes were decidedly ro- 
mantic. The classicism of his writings was 
therefore not so much the expression of anything 
fundamental in his nature as the result of deliber- 
ate conformity to a critical theory. 

P. 274. 1. 180. Horace, in his Ars Poetica, 
had admitted that even Homer sometimes nods; 
Pope suggests that when we suspect a good writer 
of writing poorly, the fault may be, not his, but 
our own. 

P. 275. II, 11. 374-383. Compare Alexander's 
Feast, p. 224. Pope heightens the compUment by 
recalling the phrasing of the original. 

The Rape of the Lock 

Pope's mocking spirit made him particularly 
successful in dealing with this petty quarrel as if 
it were a matter of national importance. The 
occasion of the poem was this : A young nobleman 
named Lord Petre had stolen a lock of hair from 
a well-known beauty. Miss Arabella Fermor, and 
a quarrel arose. Their common friend, John 
Caryll, suggested to Pope, whom he also knew well, 
that the poet write something to make peace. 
The first version of The Rape of the Lock was the 
result. At first, all parties to the quarrel were 
incensed by the satire, but eventually they were 



NOTES 



731 



placated, and Miss Fermor allowed Pope to dedi- 
cate the second edition of the poem to her. In 
the first form the "machinery" of the sylphs was 
absent. In order that the reader may compare 
the two versions, Pope's later additions are shown 
within brackets ; aside from these additions and a 
few minor verbal changes, the poems are identical. 

The charm of the poem comes from its mock 
solemnity, its sudden bits of bathos, its delicious 
wit and sparkle, its light sketching of human 
vanities and follies, and the perfect art of its verse 
and phrasing. 

1, 1. 32. silver token, the silver penny which super- 
stition said the elves would drop into the shoe of 
a maid who was tidy about her work. Circled 
green, the fairy ring (cf. the song from A Mid- 
summer Night's Dream (p. 143), 1. 8). 

P. 278. II, 11. 112-115. Note that the fanciful 
name in each case tells the sylph's occupation : 
Zcphyretta, little breeze; Brillante, shining one 
(for Belinda's earrings) ; Momcntilla, little mo- 
ment, i.e., timekeeper; Crispissa, curly one (cf. 
IV, 99-102, from which it appears that Belinda's 
hair did not curl by nature). 

n, 11. 134-135, and 111,1. 106. The drinks served 
were chocolate and coffee. The chocolate was 
evidently brought in a hard ball or cake, as it is 
still prepared in the West Indies, and was ground 
in a hand mill, as were the roasted coffee berries. 

Pp. 279 f. Ill, 11. 25-100. The popular Spanish 
game of ombre. Evidently Pope's description is ac- 
curate (cf . Lamb's Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist, 
p. 426). Most commonly it was played by three 
persons, one of whom made the trump and played 
against the other two. Nine cards were dealt 
(II. 29-30). The Matadores (1. 33) were the 
principal trumps, in the order of importance (1. 34) 
as follows : (i) Spadillio (1. 49), the ace of spades ; 

(2) Manillio (1. 51), with a black trump, the deuce 
(as here, cf. 11. 46-47), with a red trump, the seven ; 

(3) Basto (1. 53), the ace of clubs; (4) Pam (11. 
61-62), the knave of clubs. 

The game runs thus : Belinda leads successively 
the ace of spades (1. 49), the deuce of spades (1. 51), 
the ace of clubs (1. 53), the king of spades (1. 56), 
and takes four tricks: (i) two trumps (1. 50), 
(2) two trumps (1. 51), (3) a trump and another 
card G. 54), (4) Pam and another card (11. 61, 64). 

Then she leads the king of clubs (1. 69) and 
loses the trick because the baron plays the queen 
of spades (11. 66-68). The baron then has the 
lead and takes three more tricks with the king, 
queen, and knave of diamonds (the last trick in- 
cluding Belinda's queen of hearts, 11. 75-76, 87-88). 

As Belinda and the baron have four tricks each, 



the next trick will determine who wins the deal. 
The baron leads the ace of hearts (1. 95), but 
Behnda has the king (11. 95-96), which, except 
when hearts are trumps, outranks the ace. Ac- 
cordingly, she is saved from codille (1. 92), the 
failure of the person who makes the trump (Span- 
ish: "yo suy hombre," "I am the man," which 
gives the name to the game) to take more tricks 
than her opponents. 

P. 280. 11.122-124. Scjdla stole for her lover 
Minos the purple lock of hair of her father Nisus, 
on which depended the safety of his city. For 
this she was scorned by Minos and changed by 
the gods into a bird (Ovid, Metamorphoses, VIII, 
6-151). ■ 

P. 281. IV, 1. 20. In England, the raw wind 
that makes people blue and irritable. In Dick- 
ens's \B/ea^ Hoiise, Mr. Jarndyce commented on 
all misfortunes with "The wind is in the East 
again." 

P. 282. 11. 127-132. The irony of 1. 132 is 
pointed by the proportion of oaths and expletives 
used, fully half of the four lines. 

P. 284. V, 11. 125-126. Romulus, the founder of 
Rome, was believed by the Romans to have been 
carried up to heaven by his father Mars, while 
he was reviewing his troops during a thunderstorm. 
He was said to have appeared in a vision to Procu- 
lus, and to have bidden him tell the Romans that 
their city would become the greatest in the world. 

Eloisa to Abelard 

Pp. 285 f. This poem is a highly romantic 
effort in itself, and surprising as coming from the 
pen of the leading poet of the age of common sense. 
It is based upon an English translation made by 
Hughes in 1714 of a French version pubhshed in 
1693 of the famous correspondence of Abelard and 
Heloise. With the original Latin letters, the 
authenticity of which has been questioned. Pope's 
version has practically nothing to do. 

The story, however, is as follows: Abelard, a 
famous scholar and teacher of the twelfth century, 
fell in love with his pupil Heloise ; but the lovers 
were separated by her uncle and both entered the 
religious life. The letters are supposed to have 
been written some years later, when Abelard was 
Abbot of St. Gildas in Brittany and Heloise Abbess 
of the convent of the Paraclete. 

Essay on Man 

Pp. 286 flf. Whether or not Pope actually had 
in his hands a manuscript embodying the ideas 



732 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



of his friend Henry St. John, Lord BoHngbroke, 
his poem is little more than a skilful paraphrase 
of the deistic philosophy of the eighteenth century 
as expressed by him. It was at first published 
anonymously, and Pope took great delight in 
hearing the various comments upon it. Not 
until it had reached its fourth edition did he 
acknowledge authorship of it. 

The poem had as great a success in Germany and 
France, in translations, as it had in England and 
America, where, notwithstanding its deism, it 
long remained a favorite with orthodox Christians 
of a mildly speculative turn. It was regarded as 
a model of cogent reasoning in verse. 

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 

Pp. 288 ff. Dr. Arbuthnot, Queen Anne's 
physician, was one of Pope's most faithful friends. 
He also was a man of some literary skill, though he 
took no pains to preserve his writings — it was 
said that he let his children make kites of them. 
According to his contemporaries, he was one of 
the most brilliant, witty, and genial members 
of the famous Scriblerus Club. Cf. Dr. Johnson's 
opinion of him, p. 343. 

The Epistle is interesting not merely as a satire 
on Pope's enemies but also as a defence of his own 
position and a study of his own character as he 
saw himself. It is impossible, however, to take 
him precisely at his own estimate. He had the 
double sensitiveness of the poet and the hunch- 
back, which made him unable to bear the slightest 
unfavorable criticism, however good-natured, of 
his work or of himself. While it is true that many 
of his enemies deserved what he said of them, 
it is also certain that he was in most instances 
provoked by their failure to approve of him. For 
instance, the three singled out in 1. 146 had all 
written against Pope. Thomas Burnet, son of the 
Bishop of Salisbury (satirized in The Dunciad, as 

G [Gilbert Burnet], IV, 1. 608), had published 

Homerides ; or a letter to Mr. Pope occasioned hy his 
intended translation of Homer, hy Sir Iliad Doggrel, 
and Pope suspected him (wrongly) of writing Pope 
Alexander's Supremacy. Pope retaliated upon 
him also in The Dunciad. Oldmixon was a 
Grub Street writer, one of the many who replied 
to The Dunciad, and had criticised Pope on other 
occasions. Cooke, who himself translated Hesiod, 
abused Pope in an article called the Battle of the 
Poets. Again, "gentle Fanny," 1. 149 (Lord 
Hervey), had infuriated Pope by ridiculing his 
deformity and his birth. The passage in 11. 305- 
333 (not given here) is one of the bitterest denun- 



ciations in all literature. It should be noted, how- 
ever, that Pope, for reasons unknown, opened 
the war in his Imitations of Horace by scoffing at 
Lord Hervey for both his good looks and his pre- 
tensions to verse. In 1. 151, he expressed his opin- 
ion that Gildon had been paid by Addison to de- 
fame him. In 1. 153, what he says of Dennis 
might as justly have been applied to himself. 
Dennis had found fault with Pope's Pastorals; 
Pope ridiculed him in his Essay on Criticism; 
Dennis retorted in a violent pamphlet. The com- 
ments on Bentley and Tibbalds (Lewis Theobald), 
1. 164, were drawn by the "slashing" that the 
famous classical scholar gave to Pope's Iliad in 
calling it "a very pretty poem but not Homer"; 
while the "piddling" (trifling) of Theobald refers 
to his objections to Pope's Shakespearean emen- 
dations and guesses. Theobald later brought out 
a much better edition of Shakespeare than Pope's. 
Pope's contempt for Ambrose Phillips (11. 179-180) 
seems to be a case of sheer jealousy of the praise 
bestowed upon Phillips's Pastorals and of Addi- 
son's friendship for him. 

Over against these evidences of pettiness must 
be placed not only the list of men of letters and of 
social eminence by whom Pope's genius had been 
recognized and with whom he was on friendly 
terms (11. 135-141), but also his own defence in 11. 
125-134, with the tragic implications of 1. 132. 
Granville, Baron Lansdowne (1. 135), was a states- 
man and himself a verse-wrifer and dramatist. 
He said of Pope when the poet was only seventeen 
or eighteen years of age that he promised "mira- 
cles." Pope dedicated to him his Windsor Forest. 
Walsh (1. 136) and Garth (1. 137) were themselves 
poets and men of taste. Congreve (1. 138) was 
one of the leading dramatists of the Restoration. 
Talbot (1. 139), Earl and Duke of Shrewsbury, 
rose to be lord chamberlain. He was, according 
to Swift, one of the most popular men of the time 
and also "the finest gentleman we have." Lord 
Somers (1. 139), lord chancellor, was a member 
of the Kit Kat Club and a patron of various mem- 
bers of it. He gave Addison his pension, and to 
him Swift dedicated his Tale of a Tub. Sheffield 
(1. 139), Earl of Mulgraveand afterward Duke of 
Buckingham and Normanby, was a munificent 
patron to Dryden. He wrote in both prose and 
verse, and his Essay on Poetry was praised by 
Dryden and Pope. Pope edited his collected 
works. Rochester (1. 140) was Francis Atter- 
bury. Bishop of Rochester, one of Pope's special 
friends' and himself a writer of polished prose. 
St. John (1. 141) was Lord Bolingbroke, by whom 
the Essay on Man was largely inspired. 



NOTES 



733 



I. 190. Pope uses Tate merely as a type. He 
has been described as the "author of the worst 
alterations of Shakespeare, the worst version of 
the Psalms of David, and the worst continuation 
of a great poem {Absalom and Achitophel) ex- 
tant." 

II. 193-214. The three enemies of whom Pope 
drew elaborate pen pictures were Addison, Lord 
Halifax, and Lord Hervey. Against Lord Hervey 
he seems to have cherished some strong personal 
grudge (see note on 1. 149, above) ; he railed 
against Halifax not only because the First Lord 
of the Treasury failed to bestow the pension he 
had promised, but also because Halifax had the 
bad taste to approve of the poet Tickell. While 
his attacks on these two men are marked by the 
most undignified vituperation, the lines on Addi- 
son show a certain restraint, as 'if Pope stood in 
some awe of the Atticus (Addison was already so 
called for his supposedly flawless style) of his 
age ; a certain unwilling respect shows through 
his taunting phrases. We have omitted the por- 
traits of Halifax and Hervey. 

The Dunciad 

P. 290. The Dunce-epic had as its hero in the 
first edition (1728) Lewis Theobald, who had 
pointed out the faults in Pope's edition of Shake- 
speare. The poem was written in imitation of 
Dryden's MacFlecknoe, which deals with the ap- 
pointment of Shadwell (who supplanted Dryden as 
poet laureate in 168S) to succeed Flecknoe, an 
obscure poet, as monarch of the kingdom of Dul- 
ness. Pope represented Dulness as a goddess who 
chooses Tibbald (Theobald) to succeed Settle 
(Elkanah Settle, a third-rate dramatist who had 
become a hack writer and died in 1724) as ruler 
of her land. In 1 741 Pope added a fourth book ; 
and in 1743, he published a revised edition with 
Colley Gibber, the actor-dramatist, as hero. The 
change was due to one of Pope's many quarrels. 
Gibber had introduced into a play some lines ridi- 
culing a play that had failed, in which Pope had 
had a hand. For this reason Pope had satirized 
Gibber in the fourth book added to the original 
Dunciad. Gibber replied in a printed letter, but 
in a spirit of good-humored raillery. Pope was 
roused by this to the point of fury which is re- 
flected in the revised Dunciad. 

The passage quoted concludes the poem. It 
tells how the reign of Dulness becomes universal 
and absolute, even the poet's Muse yielding to 
her power. It is often cited as the most eloquent 
passage in all Pope's writings. 



The Iliad 
Gf. note on Ghapman, p. 710, above. 

JOHN GAY 

Pp. 291 f. Gay, at the request of Pope, set out 
to burlesque the Pastorals of Ambrose Phillips, 
but having an e3^e for reality and a genuine though 
slight poetic talent, he produced in his Shepherd's 
Week a work of some interest and vitality. The 
same sense of reality and lightness of touch are 
displayed in his Trivia, or Art of Walking the 
Streets and in his Fables. 

His Black-eyed Susan connects him with the 
romantic movement, in that it is an early eight- 
eenth century song dealing sympathetically 
though artificially with the lives and emotions of 
the lowly. 

His greatest success and his main claim to a 
place in the history of English literature came from 
his composition of the Beggar's Opera, a burlesque 
of fashionable Italian opera, in which the prin- 
cipal characters are thieves and vagabonds. It 
is in a sense the ancestor of modern comic opera. 

EDWARD YOUNG 

Pp. 292 f. Young's poetry has now entirely 
lost its appeal, but it is important historically. 
The tide of the Romantic Movement was rising 
when he began to write, and he was carried on 
with it so that his mediocre talent brought him a 
disproportionate success. His sententious moral- 
izing, and his religious sentimentality appealed 
strongly to an age of rigid theoretical conventions 
and actual license. 

His early satires were in the manner and form of 
the classical age ; his later poems, from which our 
extracts are taken, are romantic, not merely in 
their background and emotion, but in their use of 
blank verse, the great vehicle of those writers who 
rebelled against the couplets of Dryden and Pope. 



THE TRANSITION 

LADY WINGHILSEA 

P. 294. Lady Winchilsea finds a place here 
because of recent years the romantic qualities of 
her work, noted long ago by Wordsworth, have 
met with general recognition and have received 
special significance from their existence at a time 
when the Glassical Movement seemed supreme. 

Her sketch of the sights and sounds of night 



734 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



(11. 23-36) shows observation and simplicity 
worthy almost of Wordsworth himself. 

ROBERT BLAIR 

Pp. 294 f . Blair's one poem gave rise to a series 
of mortuary poems, and is important because it 
appealed to the same taste that took delight in 
Young's Night Thoughts, and so belongs to the 
same phase of the romantic movement. 

JAMES THOMSON 

Pp. 296 fif. Thomson is one of the earliest 
romantic poets to make the different aspects of 
Nature his main theme. The extracts from his 
Seasons show that he had really observed what he 
described, although he is not free from such 
indirectness of phrasing for mere effect as the 
bleating kind = sheep, soft fearful people = sheep, 
plumy people = birds, watery gear = fishing tackle, 
in which the classical school of poets delighted. 
He was preeminently the poet of the English 
middle classes until the nineteenth century, when 
Scott and then Tennyson took his place. 

Pp. 298 ff. His Castle of Indolence, like Shen- 
stone's Schoolmistress (pp. 312 f.) and other 
eighteenth century imitations of Spenser's Faerie 
Queene, was intended to be at least mildly hu- 
morous. Thomson uses comparatively few ar- 
chaic words or constructions — just enough, 
perhaps, to secure the effect of quaintness and 
remoteness at which he aimed. It is hardly neces- 
sary to add that neither he nor any other eight- 
eenth century writer was always accurate in his 
use of such words and constructions, 

JOHN DYER 

Pp. 300 f . Dyer wrote little but he had the eye 

of a careful observer and lover of Nature. For 
this he was perhaps indebted to his having been 
born and brought up in Wales among the moun- 
tains and dales of which he sings. It is just possi- 
ble that the word "van" — rather curiously used 
in 1. 3 — may have been suggested by the name 
of a mountain familiar to him — the Carmarthen 
Van, the second highest peak in southwest Wales. 

DAVID MALLET 

Pp. 301 f . David Mallet — his name was origi- 
nally Malloch — lives in literary history by virtue 
of three rather curious circumstances : the title 
of one of his poems (The Excursion) had the 



honor of being used later by Wordsworth; the 
famous song, Rule Britannia! (p. 300), was first 
sung in a musical comedy called Alfred, a Masque, 
composed by him and James Thomson ; and 
he was the reputed author of William and 
Margaret (p. 301), the most important ballad 
in the history of the Romantic Movement. 
Fate favored him in Wordsworth's choice of a 
title for his poem. She favored him in the 
second instance by letting the poet James 
Thomson die before Alfred was printed and 
before any public claim had been made to 
the great song which all scholars now as- 
cribe to Thomson. She favored him the third 
time by allowing him to retain for over one 
hundred and fifty years credit in literary circles 
for the authorship of William and Margaret, 
a ballad which" we now know to have been 
printed in slightly different form and sold 
about the streets of London while he was still a 
child. The importance of the ballad for the his- 
tory of Romanticism lies partly in its real beauty, 
partly in the early date at which it attracted public 
attention and interest, and partly in the large 
amount of discussion to which it gave rise. 

SAMUEL JOHNSON 

Pp. 302 ff. Boswell's incomparable account 
of the life and conversation of Dr. Samuel Johnson 
not only proves that his personal supremacy in 
the literary society of his day was deserved, but 
also exhibits in almost bewildering detail the in- 
dependence of character, the courage, the strong 
and clear common sense, the freedom from cant, 
the wit, and the personal vigor, by virtue of 
which he dominated all with whom he came in 
contact. All these qualities are exhibited also 
in Johnson's writings, though his wit is sometimes 
made clumsy by an affected ponderosity of dic- 
tion, and his common sense sometimes sounds to 
our modern ears like oracular emptiness in the 
elaborate artificiality of his balanced clauses 
and phrases. 

CONGREVE 

In his Lives of the English Poets, which were 
written when he was nearly seventy years old, 
Johnson's style is seen at its best. His diction 
has become more simple and natural and the 
structure of his sentences more varied and flexible. 

These essays are still valuable. Since they 
were written, research has cleared up many points 
which were then doubtful and has supplied much 
information wliich was then inaccessible ; but in 



NOTES 



735 



his judgments of men and affairs and his criticisms 
of the purely intellectual qualities of the writings 
he discussed Johnson has rarely been equalled. 
He was, however, not endowed with poetic imagi- 
nation, and he had little sensitiveness to some 
of the finer aspects of beauty. Consequently, 
while he is nearly always right and convincing 
in his attacks on poor verse, his judgment as to 
what is best is not trustworthy. The passage in 
The Mourning Bride which he declares the most 
poetical paragraph in the whole mass of English 
poetry has impressed most good judges as mere 
rhetorical declamation — and not of the highest 
order at that. 

P. 307 h. our Pindaric madness. Cowley was 
blamed by his successors for introducing into 
English a Pindaric ode that did not conform to the 
plan of Pindar, but in metre and rhythm was gov- 
erned only by the writer's caprice. For the struc- 
tural scheme of the classical Pindaric ode, cf. 
note on Gray's Progress of Poesy, pp. 736 f. 

The Rambler 

Pp. 308 f . The Rambler was a periodical mod- 
eled on the Taller, the Spectator, and their like. 
Johnson was unable to give his essays the grace, 
ease, playfulness, and infinite variety of tone and 
manner which made the success of Steele and Addi- 
son. His diction is here at its worst and his sen- 
tences, though clear and strong, rumble and creak ; 
but even here the fine qualities of his mind are 
displayed. The subject and the ideas of the 
essay we have chosen as representative are from 
time to time re-discovered by social philosophers 
and exploited as a new contribution to human 
knowledge. 

London 

Pp. 309 f. This is an imitation of the third 
satire of Juvenal. It was published in 1738 and 
in its bitterness bears evidence of the poverty, 
struggles, and lack of success which marked John- 
son's life at that time. Satires were then much 
in vogue. An ambitious young author of that 
period wrote a satire as naturally and inevitably 
as he now writes a short story. This one is 
notable only for the author's sympathy with the 
poor and his expression of personal feeling in 1. 173, 
which he caused to be printed in capital letters. 
In style, it shows many of the qualities and tricks 
which especially characterize his work, though 
they are not so fuUy developed as in the Rambler 
and The Vanity of Human Wishes. 

11. 158 f. Even the sedate tradesman, at the 



sight of a tattered cloak, wakes from his dream of 
wealth and labors to make its wearer the object 
of a scornful jest. 

11. 162-165. The thought was suggested by Ju- 
venal. 

P. 310. 1. 169. Spain, under authority of a 
papal grant of the sixteenth century, claimed all 
lands more than 470 leagues west of the Azores. 

The Vanity of Human Wishes 

This is an imitation of the tenth satire of Ju- 
venal. It was published in 1 749 and shows in style 
the further development of the qualities of sono- 
rous diction and balanced sentence structure exliib- 
ited in London. The first couplet is often quoted 
as an example of tautology disguised by verbosity. 
The general theme of the satire is stated in the 
title. The method is to present successively 
examples of great ambitions vmfulfiUed or, when 
fulfilled, the source of disappointment. 

U. 191 ff. The meteoric career of Charles XII 
of Sweden was fresh in mind when Johnson wrote, 
and had been brilliantly described by Voltaire. 
Charles invaded Denmark, defeated the Russians, 
the Poles, and the Saxons, and conceived the 
design of overthrowing the Russian Empire . WTien 
the Czar wished to negotiate peace, he declared, 
"I will treat with the Czar at Moscow." From 
this time his career was a succession of misfortunes 
and failures. His army, weakened by famine and 
cold (11. 207-208), was defeated and scattered at 
Pultowa, July 8, 1709, and he fled into Turkey, 
where he attempted by bribes and intrigues to 
enlist Turkey in his designs. But the Czar bribed 
and intrigued more effectively, and Charies was 
imprisoned. He escaped in disguise in 1714 and 
fled to Norway, where he was killed, at Fredericks- 
hall, Dec. II, 1718, by some unknown person 
(1. 220). 

P. 311. 11. 313 f. Solon is said to have told 
Crcesus to count no man happy till his death. 

U. 317-318. The duke of Marlborough, the 
greatest general of his time, was paralj^zed in 1716, 
six years before his death, and spent liis last days 
playing with his grandchildren, being quite out 
of public affairs. He was taUced about for his 
petty economies ; it was said that, old and inJirm 
as he was, he would walk to sa\e the expense of 
sixpence for a sedan chair. 

Swift's mind began to fail in 1738, and he sub- 
sequently had paralysis and aphasia; in i74ihe 
was insane beyond hope and so continued till his 
death in 1745, foiir years before Johnson wrote 
these lines. 



736 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE 

Written in an Inn at Henley 

P. 311. These lines in praise of the comfort 
and freedom from care to be found in an old Eng- 
lish inn have been much praised and the last 
stanza often quoted. Dr. Johnson was especially 
fond of them. 

The School-Mistress 

Pp. 312 f. Thomson's imitation of Spenser, 
in his Castle of Indolence, has, as he intended, the 
effect of remoteness and dreaminess. Shenstone 
mixes realism and pseudo-archaisms to secure a 
playful picturesqueness which perhaps justifies 
his method, though his ignorance of archaic Eng- 
lish may cause distress to the student of language. 
Shenstone had seen such a school-mistress and such 
a school as he describes. He spent his life in the 
country and is mainly notable for his romantic 
taste in gardening and his sacrifice of his fortune 
to his hobby. 

11. 136-139. The Coronation Chair of Great 
Britain, which contains the ancient "stone of 
destiny" brought from Scone, in Scotland, where 
it formed part of the seat in which the kings of 
Scotland were crowned. 

P. 313. 11. 156-158. A hornbook was a card on 
which were printed the letters of the alphabet, a 
few simple syllables and words, the nine digits, and 
the Lord's prayer ; this was covered with a thin 
transparent sheet of horn and set in a frame with a 
handle. Later the term was used loosely for a 
primer of any sort. 

U. 165-167. In his i^oene Q^eewe Spenser often 
expresses his sorrow and pity for the characters of 
his poem when they are in distress or danger ; cf . 
I, iii, 1-18 (p. 114). 

THOMAS GRAY 

Pp. 313 ff. Gray is the best type of the eigh- 
teenth century scholar-poet, important for his 
influence in the Romantic Movement, though in 
his own poetry less interesting than some poets 
of less authority. His work is always artistic, 
often artificial, never spontaneous, and it abounds 
in abstractions and personifications of abstractions 
(cf. 11. 61-70 in the Ode on . . . Eton College, 
p. 314). It shows, however, a wide range of in- 
terests, of subjects, and of metres ; and he was a 
pioneer in many fields. He was one of the first 
poets in his time to write sympathetically of the 
life of the poor villager; he experimented in the 



classical form of the ode, with the regular strophe, 
antistrophe, and epode; he translated from the 
Norse at a time when Norse literature was un- 
known in England ; he enjoyed romantic scenery 
at a time when it w as unfashionable to do so ; he 
was interested to write of the misfortunes of the 
Welsh nation in The Bard and he gave practical 
aid to the Welsh poet, Llewelljm Jones. 

On a Distant Prospect of Eton Col- 
lege 

As a child Gray was sent to school at Eton 
College, and he seems always to have retained 'his 
interest in that place 'and the beautiful country 
about it. This poem, written when he was twenty- 
six, reviews the sports and probable future des- 
tinies of the boys who play there as he played when 
a child. In the churchyard at Stoke Pogis, only 
a few miles from Eton, is shown an ancient yew- 
tree beneath which tradition says he wrote his 
famous Elegy, and his own grave there bears the 
epitaph with which the Elegy closes. 

The Ode shows the fondness for personified 
abstractions, for apostrophes to inanimate objects, 
for "elegance" of diction, and for moralization, 
characteristic of the so-called Age of Classicism. 
The Elegy still retains the fondness for abstrac- 
tions, but shows in other respects distinct tenden- 
cies toward saner ideals of style. Both poems 
exhibit that taste for melancholy which was a 
marked feature of the early productions of Ro- 
manticism. 

Elegy Written in a Country Church- 
yard 

Pp. 314 ff . . This poem has always been popular 
because of the combination of universality and 
democracy in its theme ; but because by the neat- 
ness of its form it has lent itself to over-quotation, 
it has lost much of its freshness for us. None the 
less, it is sincere and touched with real feeling. 

P. 315. 1. 57. Some village- Hampden. Some 
one who wiU stand up for the rights of his neighbors 
against the injustice of a local landowner, as John 
Hampden stood up for the rights of his country- 
men against the unjust taxation of King Charles I. 

The Progress of Poetry 

A Pindaric Ode 

Pp. 316 flf. Cf. note, p. 735 above, on Cowley's 
treatment of the Pindaric Ode. Gray had too 



NOTES 



737 



exacting a sense of scholarship not to adopt the 
genuine classical form. The present poem consists 
of three strophes and antistrophes, each contain- 
ing twelve lines, and of three epodes, each contain- 
ing seventeen lines. The parts are balanced 
in rhythm and in the various rhyme schemes. 

/. Strophe : invocation to music. 

Antistrophe : the power of music (the lyre, which 
was invented by stretching strings across a 
tortoise shell) to soothe all cares and passions, and 
to subdue the god of war, and even the eagle of 
Jove, the ruler of storms. 

P. 317. Epode : the voice and the dance are 
obedient to music, together with all the Loves and 
Graces who dance before Venus to its strains. 

//. Strophe : the ills to which mankind is sub- 
ject and the question whether music can lessen 
them. 

Antistrophe : the power of music from the Pole 
(the Eskimos) to the Equator (Chili). 

Epode : the passing of music from Greece to 
Rome and from Rome to England. 

///. Strophe : Shakespeare as the poet of Na- 
ture who can play upon the human heart. 

P. 318. Antistrophe : JMilton as the poet of the 
supernatural, and Dryden as a lesser poet but still 
great in the management of the heroic couplet 
(U. 103-106). 

Epode: Dryden as a IjtIc poet (11. 107-111); 
Gray's own ambitions. Though he cannot equal 
Pindar, he has cultivated verse since childhood, 
and he will mount higher than " the Great " 
(who are not poets), simply because of his calling 
as poet. 

The Fatal Sisters 

Pp. 318 f . In his simplicity and directness Gray 
has caught something of the Norse spirit ; and the 
form he has chosen, with its short lines broken up 
by alternating rhyme, bears out the general effect. 

The chief importance of this poem and of several 
of Graj^'s later compositions is that in them were 
introduced to English readers new and fruitful 
sources of poetic themes. The Descent of Odin, 
The Triumphs of Owen, and The Bard all testify 
to the range of Gray's studies and the cathohcity 
and unconventionality of his taste. ' 

This poem is supposed to be addressed to her 
sisters by one of the Valkyries or Battle Maidens of 
Norse mythology. They are, as their name 
indicates, "choosers of the slain" (see 11. 33-34) 
and they hasten with joy to the battle. 

The battle was fought in the eleventh century 
between Sigurd, earl of the Orkneys, and Brian, 
Kintr of Dublin. 



WILLIAM COLLINS 

Pp. 319 ff. Collins wrote little, but his verse 
is simple, natural, and of exquisite poetic quahty. 
His work is in general free from the affectations 
and conventionalities of his time. His Ode on the 
Popular Superstitions of the Highlatzds especially 
shows his ability to break away from the con- 
ventional in the choice of poetical material. 

Ode Written in the Beginning of the 
Year 1746 

The occasion was the loss of a large number of 
English soldiers in the autumn of 1745 and Janu- 
ary 1746, in the War of the Austrian Succession. 

Ode to Evening 

This is a notable example of an unrhymed stan- 
zaic poem. 

The influence of Milton's minor poems is appar- 
ent in such hnes as 11, 12 and 31, yet the picture 
itself is freshly imagined and original. 

The Passions 

Pp. 320 f. Like Dryden's Alexa)tder's Feast 
(pp. 224 ff.), this is an ambitious attempt to suit 
the verse and style to the sentiments, varying them 
according to each passion described. It concludes 
with a tribute to the power of music in inspiring 
emotions. The poem is not entirely free from the 
conventional diction and rhetorical figures of the 
time. 

THOMAS WARTON 

P. 322. Thomas Warton owes his position in 
the history of EngHsh poetry, not to the fact that 
he was poet laureate, but to his having contributed, 
both by his own verse and by his History of English 
Poetry, to the triumph of Romanticism. His 
History of English Poetry, which is still a standard 
treatise, brought to the attention of the reading 
public the rich but forgotten fields of English 
poetry from the twelfth to the close of the sixteenth 
century, the influence of which became dominant 
in the Romantic revival. His best poetry also 
expresses two of the principal characteristics 
of Romanticism — love of antiquity and love of 
nature. He is further notable as having helped 
to revi\'e the sonnet as a form of English \-erse. 

Sonnet IV 

In Salisbury Plain stand many gigantic stones 
set in two concentric circles surrounding two 



738 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



ellipses and a central altar, which have aroused 
much speculation as to their origin and purpose. 
Scholars now believe that they are in fact — as 
they were long ago reported to be — ruins of a 
temple of the Druids, remnants of that ancient 
system of religion held by the Celts in all parts of 
Europe in prehistoric times. 

1. 5. Hengist and his brother Horsa were the 
traditional leaders of the first bands of Saxons 
that came from Germany to Britain and, with the 
aid of later reinforcements, conquered Vortigern, 
King of Britain. 

1. II. Brutus was, in the legendary history of 
Britain, a descendant of ^Eneas and the colonizer 
of the island Britain, which took its name from 
him. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

Pp. 322 flf. Whatever may be the truth about 
Goldsmith's character, — and he seems to have 
been misrepresented by BosweU and misunder- 
stood by most of his biographers, — his writings 
are usually full of sensible and independent thought 
as well as of grace and charm. His kindliness and 
his humor are all-pervasive, and the quality of his 
work, considering the amount he wrote and the 
conditions under which he worked, is amazing. 

Letters from a Citizen of the World 

In 1 72 1, Montesquieu made a sensation and 
started a literary fashion with his Persian Letters 
(Lettres Fersanes), in which he criticised French 
society with much wit and effectiveness. Gold- 
smith in 1760 contributed to the Pitblic Ledger, a 
daily paper, a series of letters purporting to be 
written by a Chinese to inform his friends of the 
manners and customs of the English. Two years 
later they were gathered into a bock and published 
under the title given above. This device for criti- 
cism has been revived with success more than once 
in our own time. 

The Deserted Village 

pp. 324 j£f. Although Goldsmith was theoreti- 
cally attached to the views held by the classicists, 
and although his first poem. The Traveller, is of 
the same general tj^De as tlie philosophical dis- 
quisitions which so many of his predecessors 
published in verse, when he came to write about 
his own recollections and sensations his work is 
so simple and unafi'ected and his emotion so genu- 
ine that he achie\-es u permanent interest. 

The Deserted Village is of course a highly ideal- 



ized picture, based probably upon memories of 
his childhood in Ireland and of the village Lissoy, 
where his brother lived ; but it has a convincing 
naturalness, unforced humor and pathos, and it 
is as successful in the sketches of character as in 
the pictures of idyllic village scenes. Here and 
there we see the influence of his romantic contem- 
poraries (cf. especially U. 344 and 418), and here 
and there we have traces of traditional conven- 
tionality (cf. swain, 1. 2, unmeldy wealth, 1. 66, 
mantling bliss, 1. 248, shouting Folly, 1. 270, fair 
tribes, 1. 338, and especially U. 97-112). 

U. 137-192. Cf. Chaucer's sketch of the faith- 
ful parson, Prologue, 11. 477-528 (pp. 64-65). 

11. 275-280. Ci. Thomson's Autumn, l\. 350-359 
(p. 298). 

Retaliation 

Pp. 329 ff. In February, 1774, two months 
before Goldsmith's death, he and some of his circle 
— Dr. Barnard, dean of Derry (1. 23), Edmund 
Burke (1. 29), Townshend, later Lord Sydney 
(1. 34), Cumberland, a dramatist (1. 61), Garrick, 
the great actor-manager (1. 93), Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds (1. 137), and others — were having dinner at 
the St. James Cofi!ee-house when some one pro- 
posed that they write mock epitaphs for one 
another. Although the accounts differ in detail, 
it appears that several members of the company 
continued the contest after the evening was over, 
and Goldsmith finally provided the epitaphs he 
had written with a humorous introduction. His 
poem was passed about in manuscript but was not 
published until after his death. It was the last 
thing he wrote. 

P. 331. 1. 137. Reynolds. Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds was greatly beloved by the Johnson group, 
to which Goldsmith belonged. His pictures are 
gentle rather than "striking," persuasive rather 
than "resistless," and noble rather than "grand" 
(1. 139). He is not to be compared with Raphael 
or Correggio. But Goldsmith was no critic of art. 

1. 146. trumpet. Reynolds was deaf. 

EDMUND BURKE 

Speech on the Nabob of Argot's 
Debts 

Pp. 331 ff. The passage quoted is from a speech 
against government support of graft in the East 
India Company. The circumstances under which 
it was delivered were these : The companj' incor- 
porated in 1600 for trading purposes in India had 
gradually acquired greater powers until in the 



NOTES 



739 



eighteenth century it covild make war and peace 
independently of the British government. In 
1749 it began a series of conquests, but with these 
came a degree of mismanagement that led to the 
passing of several bills in Parliament and, in 1784, 
to the establishment of a parliamentary board 
of control. For some years it had been known 
that officers and members of the company had been 
making fortunes by helping the Nabob of Arcot 
to plunder his neighbors, receiving from him in 
return, not merely money to an extent impossible 
to estimate, but also the promise to pay several 
million pounds acknowledged as debt on his part 
to various individuals. Parliament demanded an 
investigation, and this was undertaken by the 
Directors of the East India Company and certain 
conclusions were reached. The IMinistry, however, 
introduced another bill providing that the sup- 
posed debts of the Nabob to mem.bersof the Com- 
pany should be raised out of the province governed 
by the Company and paid, practically without 
investigation. Fox challenged this bill, February 
28, 1785, and there was a debate, in which Burke's 
was the last speech. The bill was lost by a large 
majority. 

WILLIAM COWPER 

Pp. 336 ff. Cowper's Task is a narrative poem 
in six books, of which the only interest lies in the 
digressions from the subject. Having been chal- 
lenged by a friend, Lady Austen, to write a poem 
in blank verse on the subject of a sofa, Cowper 
set out upon his "task," and developed the work 
as a sort of poetical commonplace book into which 
he put his various experiences, impressions, emo- 
tions, and ideas. Fie touches the Romantic I\Iove- 
ment in several ways : in his realistic descriptions 
of nature and of humble life (cf. the woodman 
and his dog, Y, 41-57), in his democratic ideals 
(cf. his attitude toward slavery, II, 1-47), and in 
the unaffected simplicity of his style. 

On the Loss of the Royal George 

P. 338. August 29, 1788, while the flagship 
Royal George was being refitted at Spithead, 
through the shifting of the weight of the guns (of 
which she carried 108), she suddenly keeled over, 
and about eight hundred of the thousand sailors 
aboard were drowned. Admiral Kempenfelt him- 
self was among the lost. 

JAMES MACPHERSON 

Pp. 340 £. Whatever may have been the real 
basis for Macpherson's so-called translation cf the 



Poems of Ossian, the work exercised a great, and, 
indeed, almost immeasurable, influence upon 
English and other hteratures. The question 
as to Macpherson's responsibility for the poems 
will probably never be entirely resolved. Celtic 
poems bearing some resemblance to his translations 
undoubtedly existed in considerable number, but it 
seems certain that his work was in no case merely 
that of a translator. 

The Battle of Loda relates an adventure of Fingal, 
father of the poet Ossian, who, according to Mac- 
pherson, composed the Gaelic original. Fingal, 
king of Morven in Scotland, was shipwrecked on 
the coast of Norway and his men fought a skirmish 
with the people of that country in which his 
friend, Duth-maruno, was kiUed. During the 
night, while the two hosts were encamped face to 
face, and Fingal himself was stiU mourning at the 
grave of his friend, Starno, the king of Norway, 
told his son Swaran a story of his youth. He said 
that when the chief, Corman-trunar, came to the 
hall of his father Annir, his sister, Foina-bragal, 
fled with him. Annir and Starno pursued, but 
Corman-trunar prevailed in battle. Then Starno 
went in disguise to the lovers, and said that Annir 
was slain and that Starno had sent him to make 
a truce until Annir was buried. Being kindly re- 
ceived, he waited until the lovers were asleep and 
then killed them both, to the great rejoicing of 
his father. Starno then asks Swaran thus to steal 
upon Fingal and kill him. As Swaran indignantly 
refuses the treachery, Starno himself undertakes 
the task, is overcome and made captive, but is 
released when Fingal sees that his foe is Starno, 
the father of Agandecca, whom he had loved and 
lost in his youth. 

JAMES BOSWELL • 

Pp. 341 ff. BosweU was a good observer and 
perhaps the best note-taker the world has e\'er 
known. Some persons have thought his accom- 
plishment in the Life of Dr. Johnson one of so 
mechanical a nature as to deserve little credit; 
but none of his many imitators has approached 
him in effectiveness, and it is now admitted that 
although he was a faithful reporter and tran- 
scriber, he used no little artistic skill in the selec- 
tion and organization of the events and conversa- 
tions he reported, and in the management of the 
vast company of figures among which the Doctor 
moves. BosweU had strong prejudices and he was 
obviously unjust to Goldsmith, of whom he was 
jealous ; but his faithfulness to his task of display- 
ing Johnson exactly as he was, is such that he 



740 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



does not suppress even the occasional manifesta- 
tions of narrowness, prejudice, bigotry, brutality, 
and coarseness. It is indeed just because we get 
Johnson as a whole that we are able to realize his 
greatness of heart and mind, his dauntless courage 
in facing life and its ills, and the robust individual- 
ity that challenged, aroused, and dominated his 
age. 

P. 346 a. For three years Voltaire lived with 
Frederick the Great as his friend and literary ad- 
viser, but they quarrelled and parted. 

Robert Levitt, a friend and dependent of Dr. 
Johnson's, was originally a waiter. He had picked 
up some knowledge of medicine and practised 
among the poor. 

P. 348 a. Great kings have always been social; 
of. what Bacon says on pp. 156 f. 

JUNIUS 

Pp. 351 ff. The Letters of Junius produced in 
their day a very great sensation, and their fame 
has been heightened by the mystery surrounding 
their authorship. Many of the prominent men of 
the time were accused of writing them, and not a 
few either shyly admitted or boldly claimed the 
credit and the infamy. The reason why the real 
author did not appear and establish his claims 
was, as De Quincey long ago pointed out, that he 
could not assert his right to the literary fame 
without at the same time convicting himself of 
having made improper use of his official position 
under the government to obtain the information 
which made his attacks so effective. Historians 
of English literature have long accustomed us to 
believe that these letters depended for their suc- 
cess solely upon their literary style, their bitterness 
of invective, and their sardonic irony; but, al- 
though they are remarkable as literature, the 
special feature which aroused the fears of the 
government was the fact that no state secret 
seemed safe from the author and that he might 
at any moment reveal matters which it was im- 
portant to keep unknown. Recent researches 
have made it practically certain that Junius was 
Sir Philip Francis, who was a clerk in the war 
office during the period of the publication of the 
letters. 

The Duke of Grafton was leader of the Whig 
party and prime minister in 1769. Junius sums 
up tlie political situation on p. 352. Lord Bute 
had been the favorite of George III and exerted 
enormous influence over him as Prince of Wales — 
an influence that persisted long after he was out 
of ofiice. 



THOMAS CHATTERTON 

Pp. 353 ff. Thomas Chatter ton wrote under his 
own name some poems of great promise for a boy (he 
was only eighteen when he died), but his most im- 
portant and interesting poems he pretended not to 
have written but to have discovered. Most of them, 
he said, were composed by a monk named Rowley 
in the second half of the fifteenth century, and 
had been found by himself among old papers in 
the church of St. Mary Redcliffe at Bristol. In 
the present state of knowledge of the English 
language it is easy for any scholar to see that these 
poems could not possibly have been written in the 
fifteenth century. They are full of false archaisms 
and eighteenth century contractions, and other 
forms not in early use. Some persons suspected 
them when they were first produced ; but to the 
majority even of the scholars of that day any imi- 
tation of old manuscripts, old writing, and old 
spelling was good evidence of age, and it seemed 
absolutely impossible that so young a boy — he 
was only twelve or thirteen when he began to 
produce these poems — could have composed the 
poems and fabricated the manuscripts. When 
the imposture was discovered, the critics, making 
no allowance for its having been the work of a mere 
child, were fiUed with high moral indignation, and 
the poor boy was allowed to starve, until, being 
able to endure his neglect no longer, he took poison 
and died. It has been thought strange that the 
poems written in this "fake" old English are 
better than those in the English of his own day; 
but the explanation seems easy psychologically. 
The imagination of the boy was speciaUy excited 
both by the idea of the imposture he was carrying 
on and by the odd forms of words which he used. 
He felt himself transported to the times and scenes 
he was trying to reproduce and wrote with the 
picturesqueness and vigor which belong to such 
excited states of mind. Professor Skeat, in his 
edition of Chatterton, changed the old spelling 
of the poems to modern spelling, on the ground 
that the boy reaUy thought in eighteenth century 
English and ought to be so represented. This 
sounds logical, but reaUy is not. He may have 
thought thus, but we may be sure that he felt and 
imagined in the^e pseudo-archaic forms which 
made the antique world live again for him. Chat- 
terton's method of old spelling is so simple also 
that it will give hardly any trouble. His first 
principle is to double letters as often as possible; 
his second is not to be too regiflar even in doing 
this; his third, to use any genuine old spellings 
that he happens to remember. 



NOTES 



741 



Bristowe Tragedie 

• Sir Charles Bawdin. It has been supposed that 
the story was suggested to Chatterton by some ac- 
count of the execution at Bristol in 1461 of Sir 
Charles Fulford, a zealous Lancastrian. Kynge 
Edwarde (1. 5) is Edward IV; Canterlone (I. 17) is 
Chatterton's mistake for Cantlow or Cantelowe; 
Canvnge (1. 45) was mayor of Bristol under Henry 
VI and Edward IV. 



The Accounte op W. Canynges Feast 

P. 358. Chatterton picked out archaic words 
from dictionaries and old glossaries, and as he 
did not know the connection in which they 
were used, he sometimes made rather ludicrous 
mistakes. In this poem he makes an unusual 
effort at archaism and consequently fails oftener 
than usual. 

Somide, 1. i, cannot be a past participle ; Byele- 
coyle, 1. 2, is a bad spelling of the French name of 
one of the allegorical characters in the translation 
of the Roman de la Rose, the name in English 
being Fair- Welcoming, i.e., Favorable-Reception; 
doe, 1. 2, cannot be singular; cheorte, 1. 4, properly 
means "dearness, scarcity," but Chatterton 
thought it could be used as an adjective meaning 
"dear, delicious"; lyche, 1. 5, is improperly used 
for "hke " or " as" ; coync, 1. 7, is used by Spenser 
to mean food for man ; heie, 1. 9, is an impossible 
form for " they"; ha>ie,\. QjisnotgoodEnghshfor 
"have nothing"; echone, 1. 11, is wrongly used 
for "each"; and deene, 1. 11, is not proper for 
"dine." I have passed over some of the minor 
errors. What Chatterton intended this to mean 
may be given thus : 

Through the hall the bell has sounded ; 
A fair welcome befits these serious men ; 
The aldermen sit around the table 
And snuff up the delicious aroma 
As wild asses in the desert waste 
Do sweetly taste the morning air. 

Such food they ate ; the minstrels play — 

A sound as of angels do they make ; 

Then they become silent ; the guests, however, 

have nought to saj' 
But nod their thanks and fall asleep. 
Thus everyday it is my habit to dine 
If one of my friends, Rowley, Iscamm or Tyb 

Gorges, is not seen {i.e., does not come to dine 

with me). 

AE 



GEORGE CRABBE 

Tales 

The Lover's Journey 

Pp. 358 f. Cf. Cowper's Task, I, 557-591, for 
a similar picture of gypsies. Cowper pities them 
and is not unaware of their picturesque qualities ; 
Crabbe is unsympathetically realistic and throws 
a stone at each member of the group. 

WILLIAM BLAKE 

Pp. 359 f. Blake was an artist as well as a 
poet, and in both characters vision is the quality 
that distinguishes him — vision of invisible forms 
and relationships — what Pater calls "preponder- 
ating soul." Both his painting and his poetry 
are full of symbolism, but they represent very 
different phases of his personality. The pictures 
are extravagant to the point of madness; the 
poems, which are so misleadingly simple in 
phrasing that they have been abused by insertion 
into school readers, are extraordinarily subtle and 
elusive. The poet who most resembles Blake 
in this subtle simplicity is Emily Dickinson. To 
understand Blake's exquisiteness, compare his 
"To see the world in a grain of sand" (p. 360) 
with Tennyson's coarser, more obvious, hence 
popular, "Flower in the crannied wall," which 
phrases the same thought. 

MINOR SCOTTISH POETS 

Pp. 361 f. The Minor Scottish Poets here 
represented are mainly interesting as a back- 
groimd to Burns. In methods and ideals he was 
not an isolated phenomenon ; freedom and in- 
dividuality had not perished entirely. In London 
literary circles and throughout Great Britain 
wherever people tried to write or to criticise as 
they thought all "up-to-date" people were writing 
and criticising, the prevailing fashion of "classi- 
cism" was omnipotent. But wherever people 
wrote for the pleasure of saying a tiling as they 
wished to say it, life, with its old jo3-s and hopes 
and sorrows and fears and desires, ran fresh and 
strong, as an immediate fount of inspiration. 

ROBERT BURNS 

Pp. 362 ff. In reading Bums, it is easj' to be- 
lieve that poetry is indeed a matter of instinct 
and not of acquirement. On his own ground and 
in his own tongue, Burns rarely failed to find that 



742 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



perfect correspondence of sound to sense, that 
perfect suffusion of thought with emotion, which 
together create poetry ; but as soon as he strayed 
from his "Scotsdom" in material, attitude, or lan- 
guage, he became commonplace and conventional. 
Compare, for instance, the last nine stanzas of the 
Cotter's Saturday Night with those that precede 
them. Compare the perfection of To a Mouse with 
the four-stanza lapse in To a Daisy (11. 31-54)- 

Lines to John Lapraik 

P. 364. Lapraik was himself a minor poet as 
well as a friend of Burns. » 

■The Cotter's Saturday Night 

Pp. 365 ff. The scene described is Burns's own 
home and his father is the Cotter. After his 
father's death. Burns himself led family prayers — 
impressively, it is said. 

Robert Aiken was a lawyer in Ayr, the market 
town near which Burns was born. 

Tam O'Shanter 

Pp. 370 flf. The peculiar quality of this poem is 
its blending of the humorous and the horrible 
in a way that is characteristically Scottish. 

Bonie Doon 

P. 372. The Doon is a little river in Ayrshire 
near Burns's home. Burns made another version 
of this poem, more regular and literary and much 
less beautiful than this. 

Ae Fond Kiss 

P. 373. Sent to a Mrs. McLehose, of Edin- 
burgh, with whom he had a love affair just before 
his marriage with Jean Armour. 

BoNiE Lesley 

Bonie Lesley was Miss Lesley Baillie, daughter 
of Mr. Baillie of Ayrshire. He, on his way to 
England with his two daughters, called on Burns 
at Dumfries. When they left. Burns accompanied 
them fifteen miles on their way and composed the 
song as he rode home. 

Highland Mary 

Mary Campbell was a young nursemaid whom 
Burns met in the spring of 1786. In a time of 



reaction against Jean Armour, whom he afterwards 
married, Burns fell in love with her, and she prom- 
ised to marry him, but she died in the autumn 
of that year. Burns never talked about her, but 
he seems to have felt her loss deeply, and some of 
his most beautiful poems are addressed to her. 

Duncan Gray 

P. 374. Cf., for spirit, with Suckling's Why 
So Pale and Wan? (p. 214, above). 

Scots Wha Hae 

This celebrates the Battle of Bannockburn, 
fought in 13 1 4, between the Scots and the English. 
The Scots had been struggling for independence 
from England since 1296. Their leader. Sir 
William Wallace, had at first considerable success, 
but was reduced to fighting a sort of guerilla war- 
fare, and was finally betrayed by one of his coun- 
trymen and executed in London in 1305. The 
struggle was, however, continued by Robert 
Bruce, who was crowned King ; and at Bannock- 
burn he won a victory that made Scotland free 
and independent until the kingdoms were united 
under James I (James VI of Scotland), son of 
Mary Stuart. 

The poem is supposed to be spoken by Bruce 
himself just before the battle, as he stood on the 
hill where to-day the "bore-stone" is still pointed 
out as his standard holder. The English at- 
tacked from the lower land by the river, where 
the softness of the ground contributed to their 
defeat. 

A Man's a Man for A' That 

This sums up the democratic attitude which 
Burns consistently maintained. The ideas which 
came to practical political expression in the Dec- 
laration of Independence and in the French Revo- 
lution were making progress in Scotland and 
England also. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

The Preface to the "Lyrical Bal- 
lads " 

Pp. 376 ff. This Preface was printed with the 
second edition of Lyrical Ballads (iSoo) and later 
expanded. By accident, one of the cuts made in 
our reprint is not indicated; there should be 
asterisks to indicate an omission on p. 378 b, after 
the words Milton himself. 



NOTES 



743 



In connection with this epoch-making essa}'', 
Jeffrey's criticism of Wordsworth's success in 
carrying out his theory (p. 416), and Coleridge's 
statement of a view opposed to the theory itself 
(p. 398) should be read. 

The famous Preface is much more than a defence 
of the particiUar poems that it introduced; it is 
a protest against the entire method of the eigh- 
teenth century poets, and a statement of the 
principles which Wordsworth believed should 
govern poetry, and which his own theory and prac- 
tice did actually introduce into the work of his 
contemporaries and successors. 

The four points in which Wordsworth regarded 
his work as fulfilling the essential requirements of 
poetry are carefully stated in the opening sentence 
of our selection. The rest of the essay is devoted 
to explaining, illustrating, expanding, and de- 
fending these principles. Particular attention 
should be given to Wordsworth's note on p. 378, 
as it shows that he was not unaware or neglectful 
of the distinction between poetry and non-poetry 
(science, as he calls the latter) whether in verse 
or prose. It is in this sense that poetry is to be 
taken in some of those fine aphorisms which give 
to this essay so much of its value, as, for example : 
"AU good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of 
powerful feelings;" "Poetry is the breath and 
finer spirit of all knowledge ; it is the impassioned 
expression which is in the countenance of all 
Science;" and man}' others. W^hat seems to be 
lacking in this exposition of Wordsworth's theory 
and what was sometimes lacking in his practice 
is that activity of the poet stated by Coleridge 
in the following terms (p. 399 b) : "He diffuses a 
tone and spirit of unity, that blends, and (as it 
were) fuses, each into each by that synthetic 
and magical power, to which we have exclusively 
appropriated the name of imagination." 

We are Seven 

Pp. 382 f. In a passage omitted from our re- 
print of the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads Words- 
worth explains that he intended in this poem "to 
illustrate the manner in which our feelings and 
ideas are associated in a state of excitement" by 
showing "the perplexity and obscurity which in 
childhood attend our notion of death, or rather our 
utter inability to admit that notion." 

Although the theme is also stated explicitly 
in the first stanza of the poem itself, the poem 
contains no explicit moralizing, but the poet un- 
doubtedly wished his readers to feel, as did the 
little girl, that loved ones are not separated from 



us, even when their bodies are laid in earth, and 
their spirits have passed to heaven. There is, of 
course, no logical transition to this conclusion from 
the utterances of an ignorant child, but the emo- 
tions may make the transition, if they have been 
sympathetically stirred. The main reason why the 
poem, for all its popularity, does not rank high as 
poetry is that it exhibits no " spontaneous overflow 
of powerful emotions," or, to use Coleridge's terms, 
that the images, thoughts and emotions are not 
fused by " that synthetic and magical power to 
which we have exclusively appropriated the name 
of imagination." In other words we have here 
perhaps raw materials for a poem, but the poem 
itself remains unwritten. The prosaic blemishes 
which Wordsworth sometimes allowed to creep 
into his poetry may be illustrated by the original 
form of 1. I : "A little child, dear brother Jim." 

The verse, appropriately to the subject and 
material, is simple and familiar, — a four-Hne 
stanza, such as is used in many ballads, with four 
and three iambic feet in alternate Hnes, and with 
alternate rhj'mes. The only features worthy of 
special note are the first, tenth, and last stanzas. 
The incompleteness of 1. i and the lack of rhyme 
between it and 1. 3 — both due to the omission of 
words from the original line — cause this stanza 
to stand off from the rest of the poem, as the pro- 
logue should. The middle rh3'me of 11. 37 and 39 
is in imitation of many lines in the old ballads and 
contributes to the inartificiahty characteristic of 
the poem. The extra line in the last stanza gives 
to it a slower and more dignified movement and 
causes the reader to reflect upon the story and its 
implications. 

In reading this poem, one is ine\atably reminded 
of the very different attitude toward the loss of a 
loved one by death expressed in the three poems 
on p. 386. It is, as has often been remarked, 
entirely uncertain whether the Lucy of these 
poems was a real person, or a creature of the poet's 
imagination. But certainly the tone of the con- 
cluding stanza of each poem suggests that she 
really existed and that the poems were written 
before the poet had recovered from the shock of 
personal loss and while his sensations of bereave- 
ment were still in entire control of his mind and 
heart. This is especially notable in the third 
poem, where the poet's thought dwells upon the 
purely physical aspect of death, and he thinks of 
the beloved body that seemed to defy the forces 
of change and death as now senseless clay, 

" Rolled round in earth's diurnal course 
With rocks and stones and trees." 



744 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Expostulation and Reply, and The 
Tables Turned 

Pp. 383 f. In a note, Wordsworth tells us that 
these two poems "arose out of conversation with a 
friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached 
to modern books of moral philosophy." They 
are companion poems, though they do not present, 
as the titles might lead one to expect, different 
phases of the same subject. The tables are turned 
only in the sense that, whereas in the iirst poem the 
poet's friend had expostulated with him, in the 
second the poet takes his turn; but in both the 
poet makes his own ideas and attitude prevail. 

The subject of both poems is Wordsworth's 
favorite doctrine of the powerful moral influence 
of nature — of birds and trees and flowers and 
beautiful streams, of sunrise and sunset and star- 
light — upon the character of any one who loves 
these things and lives in sympathetic communion 
with them. In another beautiful poem {Three 
Years She Grew, p. 386) he carries the doctrine 
still further and asserts that grace of form and 
beauty of face will pass from the graceful and 
beautiful objects of nature to the child who grows 
up among them (see especially 11. 19-24 and 29-30 
of that poem) . 

If there is any difference at all between the doc- 
trine set forth in Expostulation and Reply and that 
in The Tables Turned, it is merely that the influ- 
ence of nature upon the passive mind is empha- 
sized in the former, while in the latter a more 
active attitude is suggested by the words "That 
watches and receives," I. 32. 

Lines Composed a Few Miles Above 
Tintern Abbey 

Pp. 384 flf. Wordsworth had visited the valley 
of the Wye, one of the most picturesque spots in 
England, in 1793 — five years, as he tells us, before 
the visit in company with his sister recorded in this 
poem. A little below Monmouth the valley of the 
Wye contracts and is enclosed by steep, wooded 
hills. Lines 10-22 (especially lo-ii and 14-16) 
indicate that he is on the cliffs, with the valley 
spread out beneath him. The poem is notable not 
so much because it gives explicit expression to the 
three phases of the love of nature recognized by 
Wordsworth, as because it is, in intensity of spirit- 
ual emotion, in the novelty and truth of its poetical 
ideas, and in beauty and suggestiveness of phras- 
ing, one of the most perfect poems ever written. 
In connection with it, the reader should by all 
means consult other passages in which Words- 



worth has dealt with the same themes, notably The 
Prelude, Bk. 1, 11. 401-463 ; Bk. VIII, 11. 340-356 ; 
and The Recluse (cf. especially the extract in this 
book, pp. 387 f .). It may aid the reader in follow- 
ing the course of the poet's thought to note that 
U. 1-22 are devoted to his return to the scene after 
a long absence; 11. 22-57 express the influence of 
these beauteous forms in absence upon his feelings 
and his insight into the meaning of life ; in 11. 57-65 
he expresses the hope that this visit, by renewing 
the memories of these forms, may supply "life 
and food" in future years; 11. 65-85 paint his 
feeling for nature at the time of his former visit 
(age 23) ; 11. 85-11 1, his maturer feeling; U. iii- 
119 tell how his former pleasures revive in the 
influence of nature upon his sister; in 11. 119-134 
he prays that this influence may continue, and sets 
forth the elevating and soothing power of nature ; 
in 11. 134-146 he exhorts his sister to experience all 
these sweet sensations and store them in memory 
as antidotes for future sorrows; and in 11. 145- 
159 bids her then remember him and his love for 
this landscape. 

I. 29. Why "purer mind"? 

II. 25-30. Compare The Reverie of Poor Susan 
and The Prelude, Bk. VII, especially the last two 
paragraphs. 

11. 38-40. Compare The Prelude, Bks. XI and 
XIII. 

11. 43-46. Note the mysticism of this passage 
and compare it with the Ode on Intimations of Im- 
mortality, 11. 141-145, and the notes on Tennyson's 
St. Ag7ies' Eve. 

P. 385. 1. 54. hjmg upon is used rather 
curiously. It does not mean "depended upon," 
but "weighed upon." 

11. 93-102. These lines have sometimes been 
taken as pantheistic, but pantheism was not 
Wordsworth's creed ; they express rather the pres- 
ence of an immanent deity. 

P. 386. 1. 149. past existence refers here to 
past experiences of this Hfe, not to preexistence. 

Lucy 

This and the two following poems form a series 
devoted to the same person. Cf. what is said 
about them above in connection with We Are 
Seven and Expostulation and Reply. 

Lucy Gray; or, Solitude 

Pp. 386 f. Like We Are Seven, this presents 
a simple story almost without comment. This 
theme, however, is better suited to the ballad- 



NOTES 



745 



like simplicity of treatment, and it contains a few 
memorable phrases. The secondary title has 
little to do with the theme. 

The Recluse 

Pp. 387 f . The Recluse is a part of a great philo- 
sophical poem upon which Wordsworth worked 
at intervals for many years but which he never 
completed. The extract here given expresses in 
poetic forms his plans and aspirations as a poet. 

By some oversight the lines of our selection 
were numbered without reference to their posi- 
tion in the poem; they come at the very end 
and the first line should be 1. 754. 

To THE Cuckoo 

Pp. 388 f. In beauty of conception and magic 
of phrasing few poems surpass or even equal this. 
It is ver}' simple in subject and structure and needs 
only to be read thoughtfully and sympathetically 
to be fully understood. Its theme is the emotions 
of wonder and delight the author feels in hearing 
again the song of the bird and recalling the sensa- 
tions with which it had been heard in boyhood. 
All poets are perhaps endowed with keener memo- 
ries of past sensations than ordinary people. How 
large a part such memories played in Wordsworth's 
life may be noted not only in The Prelude, 
The Recluse, and Tlie Excursion, but in many 
occasional poems such as this and the Lines 
Composed above Tinlern Abbey. Even details, such 
as the peculiarity of the cuckoo's song referred 
to in 11. 3-4, 7-8, 15-16, and 29-32, are recalled 
more than once (cf. Tlie Recmse, 11. 90-94). 

"Where'er my footsteps turned, 
• Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang. 
The thought of her was like a flash of light, 
Or an unseen companionship, a breath 
Of fragrance independent of the wind." 

The Solitary Reaper 

P. 389. This poem was suggested by the fol- 
lowing words in Thomas Wilkinson's Tour in 
Scotland : ' ' Passed a female who was reaping alone ; 
she sung in Erse, as she bended over her sickle; 
the sweetest human voice I ever heard ; her strains 
were tenderly melancholy, and felt dehcious long 
after thej' were heard no more." Again, as in 
the poem To the Cuckoo, we have the witchery 
of music and mystery wonderfully rendered by 
the art of the poet. And here in addition we 
have a picture sketched without detail yet as 



vivid to the im.agination and as lasting in the 
memory as Millet's " Angelus." Perhaps the only 
obscurity in the poem — the reason why the poet 
does not know what she sings — is removed by 
Wilkinson's statement that she sang in Erse, the 
language of the Gaelic Highlanders. 

Ode : Intimations of Immortality 

FROM Recollections of Early 

Childhood 

Pp. 391 £f. Although this poem has long been 
a favorite of lovers of Wordsworth and though no 
one can deny the beauty of it, some of the Ortho- 
dox have objected to the doctrine that souls have 
a conscious existence in another world before being 
united with the body in this. Wordsworth him- 
self is careful to disclaim this doctrine as a creed 
and to insist only upon his right to treat it poet- 
ically. It seems clear, however, that the doctrine 
made a powerful appeal to his imagination and 
affections. The beauty of the poem, both in parts 
and as a whole, wiU be felt by every reader, but 
as the exact relation of some of the parts to the 
general theme seems to have been missed by some, 
it may be well to give a closer analysis than usual 
of the course of thought. 

I, II. Even though the poet sees and feels 
the beauty of the earth, he misses in it a glory it 
once possessed. 

Ill, IV. While birds and beasts are full of joy, 
he alone feels sad, but utterance gives relief and 
he determines to share in the general joy and enu- 
merates the sources of pleasure. But in vain, 
for the sight of a tree, a field, a flower, recalls 
thoughts of "the glory and the dream" that are 
gone and makes him ask what has become of 
them. 

V, VI, VII, VIII. He expounds the theory 
that the new-born soul coming to earth from 
heaven brings a part of the glory of heaven with 
it and envelops in it all the sights and sounds of 
earth, but loses it as it journeys through the 
world. The whole theorj' is explicitly stated in V. 
The efforts of Earth to win her foster-child Man 
to love her alone are given in VI. The earthly 
attractions and interests that successively capture 
his heart and fill his life are set forth in VII. 
"Why, O Child, do you — endowed as you are 
with heavenly knowledge and glory — strive to 
become the slave of Earth?" is the substance of 
VIII. 

IX. The poet utters thanks for the indestructi- 
ble traces of our heavenl}' origin. 



746 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



X. He reverts to the joy theme of III, IV, 
with recognition of the compensations afforded 
by "the philosophic mind" for the lost splendor 
and glory. 

XI. He appeals to Nature whom he now loves 
even more deeply, because more seriously and 
maturely. 

The argument in favor of immortality from 
hints of preexistence forms the principal subject 
of Plato's Phado, and is also finely set forth in 
The Banquet and Phcedrus. The argument as 
given in the Meno is more sophistical and less 
interesting. 

P. 392. 1. 28. the fields of sleep. Professor 
Hales is probably wrong in explaining this as "the 
yet reposeful, slumbering, countryside," for not 
only the poet and the birds, but the shepherd boy 
of 1. 35, the children of 1. 45, and the whole coun- 
trjrside are awake. To the west of the poet, of 
course, the sun has not yet reached and awakened 
the people. The winds are therefore the western 
winds. 

U. 58-76. Compare Vaughan's beautiful poem 
The Retreat, p. 221. 

1.67. prison-house, Hie; ci. Phcedo, 62. 

1. 68. Note the stages of change indicated by 
infancy (66), boy (68), youth (ji),ma'>P (75). 

1. 81. Earth is conceived as the nurse of Man, 
not as his mother ; his ancestry is divine. 

P. 393. 1. 103. humorous stage. The general 
conception comes from the speech of Jaques in As 
You Like It, II, vii, 139 ff. According to the 
ancient physiology a man's tastes and tendencies 
were determined by his predominant humor. "Hu- 
morous stage" therefore means here the part in 
life to which his nature impels him. 

I. 124. yoke, of custom. Cf. 1. 127. 

II. 141-165. Wordsworth himself explained 
that these lines refer to peculiar experiences much 
like those which we shall have occasion to note in 
connection with Tennyson's St. Agnes' Eve. He 
says, "There was a time in my life when I had 
to push against something that resisted, to be sure 
that there was anything outside of me. I was 
sure of my own mind; everything else fell away 
and vanished into thought." Such experiences 
suggested, of course, the unreality of the external 
world and the real existence of the soul. 

1. 166. The poet has changed his imagery some- 
what and speaks as if souls were brought to this 
world by the sea of immortality (immortal sea, 
1. 163). The children are, therefore, near the 
shore, while youths and men are further inland 
(cf. 1. 162). 



P. 394. 1. 198. It is the poet's eye that hath 
kept watch o'er man's mortahty, and he therefore 
sees with a soberer coloring the clouds which to the 
child Avere brilliant with the light of the setting 
sun and the "visionary gleam." 

1. 199. This is rather obscure, but seems to 
mean that in one more contest man has been vic- 
torious, in the sense that he has attained to a 
deeper, more philosophic love of nature. 

U. 202-203. It cannot too often be insisted 
that the meaning of these lines is distorted if 
they are taken out of connection with U. 200-201. 
It is not because of the love of nature, but because 
of the love of man that a flower can give the poet 
"thoughts that do often He too deep for tears." 

To A Sky-Lark 

Cf. Shelley's To a Skylark, p. 465. 

On the Extinction of the Venetian 
Republic 

Venice, during the Middle Ages and early 
modern times one of the richest and most power- 
ful cities of the world, began to lose its power 
soon after the discovery by the Portuguese of 
the route to India and China round the Cape 
of Good Hope. In the eighteenth century it had 
become a city of idle, unenterprising, pleasure- 
loving people. But its final humiliation came in 
1797 when it was conquered by Napoleon and by 
him turned over to the rule of Austria. Very 
similar to the feelings of Wordsworth are those 
expressed by Byron some years later in the first 
canto of his Ode (p. 455). 

In structure this sonnet varies from the regular 
Petrarchan model, as the octave falls into two 
quatrains, independent in rhyme and in syntax. 
Contrast with it in structure the sonnet London, 
I So 2, which is perfect both as to the structure of 
the octave and the division of the theme between 
the octave and sestet, and that Composed Upon 
Westminster Bridge, which, though metrically 
perfect, continues the theme of the octave into 
the sestet. 

Lines 7-8 refer to the well-known annual cere- 
mony in which the Doge of Venice dropped a 
ring into the sea in token of the wedding of the 
city to it. 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 

Dominique Francois Toussaint L'Ouverture, 
one of the most remarkable negroes known to 



NOTES 



747 



history, was born in Haiti in 1743. Although a 
slave, he received an elementary education and 
attained prominence. He took part in the revo- 
lutions of 1791-94 and in the latter year became 
commander-in-chief ; in 180 1 he was made presi- 
dent for life with the power of nominating his 
successor. After a series of battles with the 
French forces sent by Bonaparte, he capitulated 
and was pardoned (May i, 1802), but the next 
month he was arrested on a charge of conspiracy, 
sent to France, and imprisoned in the Castle of 
Joux, where he died in April, 1803. Wordsworth 
wrote this sonnet in August, 1802. Toussaint was 
notable for his protection of the whites and his 
attempts to give the negroes liberty and a stable 
organization of industry. 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjuga- 
tion OF Switzerland 

Cf. Byron's Ode, especially section IV (pp. 
455 ff.). 

The World is too Much with Us 

P. 395. This is a passionate outcry against the 
absorption of men in worldly business and their 
lack of interest in Nature and its inspiring in- 
fluences. The poet declares that, rather than be 
so absorbed, he would prefer even to be a pagan, 
that thus imagination might at times give him 
glimpses of the gods of nature, such as Proteus and 
Triton • — gods of the sea. 

To Sleep 

Cf. the sonnets of Daniel (p. 147) and Keats 
(p. 478). 

Scorn not the Sonnet 

P. 396. Cf. Rossetti's sonnet on the sonnet 
(p. 630). Dante, Petrarch and Tasso were Italian 
writers who cultivated the sonnet ; Camoens was 
a Portuguese. 

SAMUEL TA\"LOR COLERIDGE 
Biogr.vphia Liter,\ria 

Pp. 396 ff. In his Biographia Literaria Cole- 
ridge gives an interesting account of his literary 
career and opinions. Chapter XIV is especially 
valuable for its relation of the origin of the Lyrical 
Ballads, the joint volume in which he and Words- 
worth gave to the world the first proofs of their 



great poetic powers, and also for its exposition of 
Coleridge's theory of poetry. It should be read 
in connection with Wordsworth's Preface. Char- 
acteristically, Coleridge is concerned, not with the 
external form, but with the nature of poetry. 

Balhyllus and Alexis (p. 398 b) are revolting 
subjects. Petronius Arbiter (p. 399 a) was a 
Roman author of the time of Nero; he was re- 
nowned for his wit and his taste. Bishop Taylor 
(ibid.) is Jeremy Taylor, the celebrated pulpit 
orator ; for an example of his poetic prose, see pp. 
216 f. Thomas Burnet (1635 ?-i7i5), an English 
scholar, wrote a Sacred Theory of the Earth 
(Tellitris Theoria Sacra) in Latin, in which he 
argued eloquently that the earth was originally 
constructed like an egg and that at the Flood 
the shell broke and let out the inner fluid and that 
the mountains are fragments of the shell. 

KuBLA Khan 

Pp. 399 f. This poem, Coleridge tells us,- he 
composed in a dream, when he had dropped asleep 
while reading a passage in Pwchas his Pilgrimage. 
The passage is as follows : "In Xaindu did Cublai 
Can build a stately Pallace, encompassing six- 
teene miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein 
are fertile Meddowes, pleasant Springs, delightful 
Streames, and all sorts of beasts of chase and 
game, and in the middest thereof a sumptuous 
house of pleasure." He goes on to say that he 
"continued for about three hours in a profound 
sleep, at least of the external senses, during which 
time he has the most vivid confidence that he could 
not have composed less than from two to three 
hundred lines; if that indeed can be called com- 
position in which all the images rose up before 
him as things, with a parallel production of the 
correspondent expressions, without any sensation 
or consciousness of effort. On awaking he ap- 
peared to himself to have a distinct recollection of 
the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, in- 
stantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are 
here preserved. At this moment, he was unfor- 
tunately called out by a person on business from 
Porlock, and detained b}' him above an hour, and 
on his return to his room, found, to his no small 
surprise and mortification, that though he still 
retained some vague and dim recollection of the 
general i)urport of the vision, yet, with the excep- 
tion of some eight or ten scattered lines and 
images, all the rest had passed away like the 
images on the surface of a stream into which a 
stone had been cast, but, alas ! without the resto- 
ration of the latter," 



748 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



The lines from Purchas seem indeed inade- 
quate to the result, but great transformations are 
possible to dreamers and poets. Whether Cole- 
ridge, in writing down his dream poem, merely 
transcribed what he could remember, or recom- 
posed it, may perhaps be doubted. He calls it a 
fragment, but it has unity and even a certain 
completeness. If he merely transcribed his 
memories, he apparently recalled the dream lines 
without a break or omission. Undoubtedly a 
continuation of the poem is conceivable, in which 
case the continuation would doubtless consist of a 
romantic narrative set against the background of 
these introductory lines. 

The poem, as we have it, is a remarkable ex- 
ample of romantic description. The mysterious 
Kubla Khan, the sacred river, the measureless 
caverns, the sunless sea, the ancient forests, the 
sunny spots of greenery, the cedarn cover, the sav- 
age place, holy but enchanted, and many other de- 
tails which will at once impress the reader, con- 
tribute to the establishment of an atmosphere of 
mystery and charm. The presence of caves of ice 
seems to have troubled some of the critics, who 
even go so far as to suggest that the poet may have 
thought of marble or alabaster. But there can 
be no doubt that he was really thinking of caves 
of ice, and that he did not regard them as poeti- 
cally impossible in such a landscape (cf. 11. 35, 36). 

Other critics have been disturbed by the intro- 
duction of an Abyssinian maid in connection with 
a scene in Tartary. But Coleridge does not 
connect the Abyssinian maid, who belongs to 
another vision, with the Tartar landscape, except 
as he might connect any other recollection with 
it. In this last stanza of the poem, he is con- 
cerned entirely with the possibility of the poet's 
rebuilding with his music the beauties of the 
stately pleasure dome. This he says he might 
accomplish if he could revive within him the 
symphony and song which he once heard in a 
dream. To produce such an effect the music 
must obviously be wild and exotic, and the poet 
has therefore chosen as the musical instrument 
the dulcimer, which, though he probably had only 
a vague idea of it, suggests by its very name infi- 
nite and mysterious possibilities. That the player 
was an Abyssinian maid and that she sang of 
Mount Abora may possibly be due to the poet's 
vague recollections of other passages in Pur- 
chas. But the matter of real importance to the 
poet and the reader is that Abyssinia and Mount 
Abora are poetic words of vague connotation 
which suit the general atmosphere of the poem. 
For both poet and reader the poem is merely 



an effort to reproduce in verse a vision of sensuous 
and mysterious beauty, and anything which inter- 
feres with the reader's emotional response to it is 
not only superfluous, but injurious. 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 

Pp. 400 S. This is also a poem which depends 
for its effect mainly upon the creation of an at- 
mosphere of mystery. It deals with the super- 
natural, though it owes much of its power to its 
descriptions of the effects of the supernatural upon 
man and nature. It contains few difficulties. In 
the second edition of it, the poet added to it an out- 
line of the narrative, printed in the margin. The 
purpose of this addition was probably not to aid 
the reader in understanding the story, but to 
increase the strangeness and weirdness of the 
poem. The archaic diction and syntax contribute 
to the same effect : cf. may'st, 1. 8, din, 1. 8, 
eftsoons, 1. 12, kirk, 1. 23, bassoon, 1. 32, sheen, 1. 
56, swound, 1. 62, thoroiigh, I. 64, / uinst, 1. 152, 
Gramercy, 1. 164, gossameres, 1. 184, quoth, 1. 198, 
etc. Notice also the effect of the repetition of 
words and lines. 

But independently of its uncanny atmosphere, 
the poem possesses other merits of the highest 
order. The narrative holds the reader as the 
Mariner's eye held the restive wedding guest. 
The events and scenes are presented as vividly as 
pictures, and the phrasing is so perfect that much 
of it has passed into common currency. Notable 
lines are 15, 34, 103-104, 105-106, 109-110, 117- 
118, 121-122, 125-126, 127-128, 200, 226-227, 
232-233, 236-239, 292-293, 369-372, 404-405, 
414-417, 498-499, 568-569, 586-587, 599-600, 
612-617, 624-625; but there are many others of 
less general application that are for the poem 
itself of equal effectiveness. 

Christabel 

pp. 415 f. The subject and title were sug- 
gested to Coleridge by the old ballad Sir Cauline. 
He wrote the first part of it in 1797-98 — that brief 
period in which he produced all his greatest 
poems : Genevieve, The Dark Ladle, Kubla Khan, 
and The Ancient Mariner. He took it up again 
in 1800, but it was never finished and was pub- 
lished as a fragment in 1816. It is interesting, not 
only as one of Coleridge's most successful treat- 
ments of the mysterious and uncanny, but also 
because it introduced a new type of verse into 
modern poetry. Scott, who heard the poem 
recited, adopted the verse for his Lay of the Last 



NOTES 



749 



Minstrel. The theme of Christahcl is the struggle 
of the heroine against the powers of evil embodied 
in a wicked enchantress, whom, in the form of a 
beautiful maiden, she rescues and brings into her 
father's castle. We give only the opening episode. 

FIL\NCIS JEFFREY 

Pp. 416 f. If Francis Jeffrey was unjust in 
his reviews of Wordsworth, lovers of Words- 
worth — and who is not ? — have been at least 
equally unjust in their treatment of Jeffrey. Sen- 
tences have been quoted, often in garbled form 
and always without the context, to illustrate the 
unfairness and stupidity and poetic insensibility 
of Jeffrey. Most sane critics of the present day 
differ from Jefi'rey mainly in emphasis ; they recog- 
nize that Wordsworth really had the defects which 
Jeffrey pointed out, and that they are grave. But 
in literature only the successes count, the failures 
fall away and should be forgotten. The selection 
here printed presents Jefi'rey in his most truculent 
mood ; another selection, the review of the Excur- 
sion, was planned for this volume, but the limita- 
tion of our space necessitated its omission. 

SIR W.'y:.TER SCOTT 
The Lay of Rosabelle 

Pp. 417 f. In the Lay of the Last Minstrel this 
poem is supposed to be sung, after the espousal 
of Alargaret of Buccleuch to Lord Cranstoun, by 
Harold, the minstrel of the house of St. Clair. 
It is composed in imitation of the ancient bal- 
lads and tells, dramatically but simply, the 
death of Rosabelle in the Firth of Forth as she 
was returning from Ravensheuch Castle to 
Roslin, and the supernatural prodigies which 
preluded it. The time is perhaps conceived as 
the fifteenth century. 

The difficulties of the poem lie mainly, if not 
exclusively, in the diction ; for the superstitions, 
if not well known, are at least easily understood. 
The words for which the dictionary may need to 
be consulted are: firth, 1. 8, inch, I. lo, panoply, 
1. 36, sacristy, 1. 38, pale, 1. 38, pinnet, 1. 41, and 
sea-mews, 1. 10; copse-wood, 1. 30, battlement, 1. 
41, buttress, 1. 42, are known to most of us only 
from literature. 

The first stanza gives, in the ancient manner, 
the minstrel's appeal for attention, and the 
nature and subject of his lay. 

In the next five stanzas the minstrel presents 
dramatically the vain effort to persuade the lady 



not to tempt the storm, the real motive for her 
going being suggested by her protests (11. 17, 22). 

The next five describe the blazing portents 
above the castle and chapel of Roshn. 

The last two tell the fate of the lady. 

The poem has no other motive than that of 
causing our sympathies to dwell lightly for a 
moment upon an ancient tragic episode. An 
air of remoteness and unreality is produced by 
the archaic spellings ladye, chapelle, by the poetic 
S3Titax, and by the light versification. 

1. 21. Riding the ring was a favorite sport of 
knights as late as the seventeenth century. The 
competitors, riding on horseback at full speed, 
tried to thrust a lance through a ring suspended 
at the proper height and carry it away. He who 
succeeded most often was the winner. The sport 
required fine horsemanship and an accurate aim. 
A form of it is practised nowadays at country 
fairs by the riders of the wooden horses of a 
merry-go-round — the same sport, but "Oh, how 
changed ! how fallen ! " 

1. 32. Haivthornden — where Ben Jonson 
visited the poet Drummond in 1618 — is famous 
for its caves. There are two sets, the upper and 
the lower, both of them artificial, but of unknown 
date and purpose. The upper, and larger, con- 
sists of a gallery 75 feet long, a passage 24 feet 
long leading to a well, and two roughly shaped 
rooms 9 feet and 15 feet long respectively, — all 
of these 62 to 7 feet wide and about 5 feet 8 inches 
high. 

1. 39. Roslin chapel is still a place of exquisite 
beauty. Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy 
visited it September 17, 1803, and both were im- 
pressed v/ith the abundance of carven foliage on 
walls and roofs and pillars. See her journal for an 
interesting account of this visit, and his sonnet, 
recording another visit in 1831. The chapel was 
repaired in 1842. 

1. 50. The knell for the dead and the use of 
candles and the service book in the burial service 
are still well known in all Catholic churches. 

FiTZ- James and Roderick Dhu 

Pp. 419 ff. This is an episode of Scott's inter- 
esting narrative poem The Lady of the Lake. King 
James V of Scotland, in disguise as the knight 
James Fitz-James, has penetrated to the island 
stronghold of the Highland clan Clan-Alpine in 
Loch Katrine and has there fallen in love with 
Ellen, the daughter of his enemy, the Earl Douglas. 
His disguise is discovered and on a second visit 
to the island he is led astray by his guide, one of 



750 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



the followers of Roderick Dhu, chief of Clan- 
Alpine. Discovering the treachery of the guide, 
he kills him and suddenly comes face to face with 
Roderick, who hates him, both because of jealousy 
of Ellen and because of the ancient enmity of the 
Highlanders for the Lowlanders. Fitz-James is 
speaking when our extract begins. 

CHARLES LAMB 

Pp. 422 ff. Either Charles Lamb captures his 
readers at once and keeps them as long as he cares 
to talk, or — if their minds are averse to his hob- 
bies, void of curiosity as to the various manifesta- 
tions of humanity in which he delights, and not 
attuned to his personality, especially his humor — 
they must forever do without him as a friend. He 
is the least formal, the most friendly, the most 
brotherly of writers. He meets his reader on the 
street, as it were, and takes him off, gossiping 
all the way, to explore odd corners and talk 
about odd people, and joke about everything that 
turns up, in the happy and not unfounded belief 
that people in general wiU be interested in him 
because he is interested in them. Cf. Swin- 
burne's sonnet to Lamb on p. 644. 

The Two Races of Men 

P. 422 b. the primitive community. Lamb re- 
fers, not to communism among primitive races, 
but to the system of the early Christians; cf. 
Acts, iv: 32. 

Pp. 424 f. Comberbatch, C, and S. T. C, are 
different designations for Coleridge in different 
aspects. Mystifications of this sort are a feature 
of Lamb's whimsical methods. 

P. 424 b. a widower-volume, not — as some 
say — because John Buncle married seven times, 
but because as there were two volumes originally, 
the one left was bereaved of his mate. 

P. 425 a. Was there not Zimmermann on Soli- 
tude. The suggestion of a book on this subject 
as more suitable for the lady is a hint at her hus- 
band's leaving her alone when he went to France. 

A Chapter on Ears 

P. 429 a. the Temple. Lamb was born there. 
His father was clerk and servant to one of the 
Benchers, who later procured Lamb's admission 
to Christ's Hospital. 

even in his long coats. Lamb studied at Christ's 
Hospital, the famous Blue Coat School founded 
by King Edward VI. Until a few years ago, 



when the school was removed to the country, 
the boys were one of the picturesque features 
of London. They stiU went hatless and wore a 
modification of the original uniform : a dark blue 
coat reaching to the heels and open in front to show 
a leather belt, knee breeches and saffron colored 
stockings, and buckled shoes. At Christ's Hos- 
pital was formed the lifelong friendship between 
Lamb and Coleridge. Cf. Lamb's essays: On 
Christ's Hospital and the Character of Christ's 
Hospital Boys, and Christ's Hospital Five-and- 
Thirty Years Ago. 

THOMAS CAMPBELL 
Ye Mariners of England 

P. 431. 1. 15. Robert Blake, a great English 
admiral under Cromwell, defeated both the 
Dutch and the Spaniards, who were then rivals of 
the EngHsh on the seas. He died at sea in 1657. 
Lord Nelson, perhaps the most famous of English 
admirals for his defeats of the navies of Bona- 
parte and his allies, was killed in the sea-fight at 
Trafalgar in 1805. But as this poem was written 
in 1800, the reference here must have been inserted 
later. The first edition of the poem (in the Morn- 
ing Chronicle) is not accessible to me. 

THOMAS MOORE 

The Harp that Once through Tara's 
Halls 

Pp. 433 f. Since the Elizabethan age, when 
apparently every one could write songs that 
would sing, there have been few poets whose lyrics 
have so much of the singing quality as have those 
of Thomas Moore. Many of them have been 
favorites of the people ever since they were written. 
Some of his sweetest and most characteristic songs 
are those celebrating the past glories or lamenting 
the sorrows of Ireland (see the note on Adonais, 
1. 269). Tara, the seat of the high, or chief, kings 
of Ireland in her ancient days of mythical and his- 
torical splendor and power, is celebrated in epic 
and in history. Ireland was then famous for cul- 
ture, for learning, for poetry, for religion, and for 
war. 

LEIGH HUNT 

Rondeau 

P. 434. This charming little poem is said to 
have been the result of Mrs. Carlyle's expression 



NOTES 



751 



of delight when Hunt announced that the pub- 
lishers had accepted Carlyle's History of Frederick 
the Great. 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

Pp. 434 ff. The Confessions of an Opium Eater 
is a literary elaboration of a class of experiences 
never before put into literary form. De Quincey 
began taking opium when he was a student at Ox- 
ford and continued all his life, although, after sev- 
eral severe crises, he succeeded in reducing the 
amount very greatly. His Confessions became 
immediately popular, doubtless rather through 
morbid interest in the theme than through appre- 
ciation of his art. 

The fact is, however, that he gives singularly 
little definite information in regard to either 
the sensations or the dreams produced by opium. 
His method is to take a comparatively small body 
of experiential fact and play with it as a musician 
plays with a theme in a fugue or a symphony. 
His high place among writers of English prose is 
due chiefly to the elaborate and subtle rhythms he 
builds up in his long, involved sentences. For the 
suggestions of these he is indebted to the writers 
of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, es- 
pecially Hooker, Sir Thomas Browne, Jeremy 
Taylor and Milton. 

P. 435 b. My knowledge of the Oriental tongues. 
The reader might infer that De Quincey knew the 
Arabic and Turkish words he mentions at the time 
of the visit of the Malay, but this visit — if it 
ever occurred — is placed by him in 1816-1817 
(see p. 438 a), at least two years before the pub- 
lication of Anastasiiis. The fact is that De 
Quincey was a little vain in regard to his learning 
— even when, as here, it was very small — and 
rarely neglects an opportunity to insinuate it. 

The quantity was enough to kill three dragoons 
and their horses. At the usual price of opium, 
this amount was an expensive gift for so poor a 
man as De Quincey to make. But the incident 
is picturesque. 

P. 436 b. as a witty author has it. The refer- 
ence is to Southey's The Devil's Walk, st. 8 : 

" He passed a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility : 
And he owned with a grin 
That his favorite sin 

Is pride that apes humility." 

P. 438 b. as unlimited a command . . . as a 
Roman centurion, an allusion to the reply of the 



centurion to Jesus : " I say unto this man ' Go,' 
and he goeth ; and to another ' Come,' and he 
cometh." Matt, viii : 9. 

P. 440 b. That Homer knew of opium and its 
effects is inferred from the account in the Odyssey, 
IV, 220-221, of the drug which Helen cast into the 
drink of the heroes who were lamenting those who 
had fallen in the Trojan war, to lull pain and 
cause forgetfulness ; but there is no reason to be- 
lieve that this implies that Homer had any per- 
sonal experience of the drug. 

P. 441 a. Observe how slight a use is made of 
the Malay after all the elaborate preparations of 
pp.' 435-436. De Quincey seems often to secure 
his effects upon his readers rather by awakening 
enormous expectations and supplying eloquent 
generalizations than by given specific details of 
horror or obsession. The passage at the foot of 
p. 441 b has been greatly and justly admired, but 
except in it and the passages on pp. 442-443 he 
displays little faculty for visual imagery, despite 
what he says in p. 438 b. His method furnishes 
a remarkable example of the use and eff"ecti\'eness 
of "atmosphere" — which he creates abundantly. 

P. 442 a. my children were standing, hand in 
hand, at my bedside. At this date he had only one 
child — an infant in arms ; he married Margaret 
Simpson — the "dear M." of p. 437 b — in 1816. 
The first child was bom in 181 7. 

Easter Sunday. A dream-confusion; Easter 
cannot occur in May. 

P. 443 b. "I ivill sleep no morel'' But he did. 

LORD BYRON 

Byron is not a poet whose work requires to be 
studied in detail, though his powerful imagination 
often produces images and phrases that do not 
reveal their full significance without careful 
reflection. In general, it is the larger, broader 
phases of his work that demand attention, — his 
emotional power, his creative imagination. That 
much of his poetry is the product of hj-sterical sen- 
timentality, partly natural and partly cultivated, 
is true, and this has been the cause of strange 
ups and downs in his reputation ; but his genius is 
undeniable, and few English poets have exercised 
so powerful an influence upon foreign literature. 

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 

Pp. 443 flf. In 1807 Byron pubhshed his first 
volume of verse. Hours of Idleness. It was un- 
favorably reviewed in the Edinburgh Rex'ieic', one 
of the two most influential magazines of the time. 



752 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



This is his reply. That his judgments are the prod- 
uct, not of intelligence, but of emotion, may be 
inferred from the praise he lavishes upon forgotten 
versifiers such as Montgomery, Bloomiield, Gifford, 
Macneil, White and Shee. In his preface he says, 
referring, we may presume, to Scott, Wordsworth, 
and Coleridge: "But the unquestionable posses- 
sion of considerable genius by several of the writers 
here censured, renders their mental prostitution 
the more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied 
or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten ; perverted 
powers demand the more decided reprehension." 
P. 445. 11. 235-238. "Mr. W., in his Preface, 
labors hard to prove that prose and verse are 
much the same, and certainly his precepts and 
practice are strictly conformable." Byron's Note. 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 

The very title of this poem, no less than the 
occasional archaic diction, serves to create an 
atmosphere of artificiality appropriate to its 
Uase hero, steeped in the unconquerable melan- 
choly of youth. There is, perhaps, no period in 
the life of an imaginative and sensitive man at 
which melancholy holds him so fast, — at which 

" the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world" 

bears so sadly upon him — as when he is just pass- 
ing from youth to manhood. This was the period 
at which Byron began this poem, and he had, in 
addition to youth's natural causes of melancholy, 
some special ones, arising from his morbid 
pride and sensitiveness, accentuated by fits of 
nervous exhaustion and reaction from a life of 
excessive self-indulgence. 

The poem is a series of more or less connected 
descriptions and meditations, suggested by the 
scenes through which his imaginary pilgrim took 
his proud and lonely way. The subjects are very 
varied, and it is interesting to note how the poet 
has made the Spenserian stanza respond to all 
the moods and movements of his themes. 

The extracts give a few of the many famous 
passages. 

The first (Canto I, 11. 1-197) describes the pil- 
grim and his departure on his pilgrimage. Note 
his pride in his profligacy and his unfaithfulness in 
love, his disbelief in friendship, his sullen aloof- 
ness, and — despite all this — his fundamental 
capacity for strong and genuine affection. His 
attitude is indicated in the very first stanza by 
his refusal to invoke the Muse. 



1. I. Hellas, ancient Greece. 

1. 6. Delphi, the shrine of Apollo, god of music 
and poetry. He obtained the lyre from Hermes, 
who had stretched strings across a tortoise shell 
(see 1. 8) and produced the first lyre. 

1. 8. Mote, an ancient form meaning may. 
Other archaisms, for which the dictionary may be 
consulted, are whilome (1. 10), in sooth (1. 14), 
Childe (1. 19), hight (1. 19), losel (1. 23), Eremite 
(1. 36), lemans (1. 'j']),feere (1. 79), Paynini (1. 99). 

1. 8. the weary Nine, the nine muses, who have 
been invoked by so many generations of poets. 

P. 446. 1. 61. Paphian girls. Paphos, in 
Cyprus, was the seat of one of the most famous 
temples of Aphrodite (Venus). Here the adjec- 
tive is applied to devotees of sensual love. 

1. 79. Eros (Cupid), the god of capricious sen- 
sual love, feere, an old word for companion, 
friend. 

I. 81. Mammon, the Syrian god of wealth (see 
Par. Lost, 1, 11. 678-688). 

P. 447. The second extract (Canto III, 11. 181- 
252) begins with the ball in Brussels the night 
before the battle of Quatre Bras (two days before 
Waterloo) and passes almost immediately to the 
battle itself (11. 200-207) . The Duke of Brunswick 
was one of the first leaders to leave the ball and 
one of the first to fall in the battle. His father 
was mortally wounded nine years before in the 
battle of Auerstadt. 

II. 226-234. The memories of clan Cameron in- 
cluded the great deeds of Evan in the war of the 
Commonwealth and of his son Donald, called "the 
gentle Lochiel," in behalf of Prince Charles Stuart 
in 1745. A pibrock is a piece of warlike Scottish 
music played on the bagpipes ; that of clan Cam- 
eron was "Cameron's Gathering." 

P. 448. 1. 235. The forest of Soignies, between 
Brussels and Waterloo, said by Byron to be a 
remnant of the ancient forest of Ardennes, 
is mentioned here on account of its associations 
with peace. 

The third extract (Canto III, 11. 604-675) is 
devoted by the poet to setting forth his attitude 
toward Nature and Man and the efl'ect of Nature 
upon himself. 

P. 449. The three stanzas (Canto IV, 11. 694- 
720) demand some familiarity with the history 
of Rome. They need no other commentary. 

And none seems needed by the two remaining 
extracts, devoted respectively to a cynical view of 
love (Canto IV, 11. 1081-1125) and to a contrast 



NOTES 



753 



of the works of Man with the desert, the forest, 
and the ocean (Canto IV, 11. 1587-1656). 

The Prisoner of Chillon 

Pp. 451 ff. Bonnivard, celebrated in the pref- 
atory sonnet, was a Genevan patriot, imprisoned 
for six 3'ears in the castle of ChiUon, four of which 
he spent in the dungeon. He was released by his 
own party and seems to have lived for some thirty- 
four years more. His story, though not very simi- 
lar to that of "the prisoner," no doubt suggested 
the poem. 

Ode 

Pp. 455 ff. There can be no doubt of the gen- 
uineness of Byron's interest in political independ- 
ence. It is attested not only by the sonnet on 
ChiUon, this Ode, and many other passages in his 
writings, but by his devotion of his money and his 
life to the struggle for the independence of Greece. 
At the time this Ode was written, Venice, once a 
glorious and powerful republic, had been since 
1797 a possession of Austria. Austrian governors 
sat in the ancient seat of the doges, and Austrian 
soldiers paraded with drums and guns in the 
streets and in tlie Piazza di San Marco ; the 
ancient spirit of patriotism seemed dead or at 
least alive only in the hearts of a few conspira- 
tors, who held meetings in Byron's own apart- 
ments. Every reader wiU wish to read in con- 
nection with this Ode, Ruskin's The Stones of 
Venice, Vol. II, Chap. IV (cf. above, pp. 582 ff.), 
especially §§ xii-xv. 

This Ode is very imeven in conception and 
execution. Cantos I and IV are well conceived 
and in general nobly expressed ; Cantos II and 
III are awkward and uncertain in thought and 
awkward and involved in style. 

After four lines of invocation to the city. 
Canto I is devoted to a merciless arraignment of 
the \'enetians for cowardice and submission to 
the tyrant Austria. Even the carved Lion of St. 
Mark, the patron saint of the city, is made to 
appear subdued and spiritless (1. 19) and the city 
is compared to a dying man (11. 37-55). 

In Canto II (II. 56-100) the same theme is con- 
tinued in confused fashion, with almost unin- 
telligible references to "the few spirits" who love 
freedom and are not appalled at thought of the 
crimes which the mob will commit in freedom's 
name when the prison wall is thundered down. 

P. 456. Canto III recites some of the former 
glories of Venice and her services in preserving 



freedom for Europe, and, finally, the poor requital 
she has received. 

Canto IV predicts the disappearance of freedom 
from Europe with the subjugation of Switzerland 
and declares America to be its only remaining 
refuge. 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Pp. 458 ff. Shelley's poetry should be read in 
the light of his own views of the nature and value 
of poetry. These are given with clearness and elo- 
quence in his Defense of Poetry, which, with the 
views of sixteen other poets, including Chaucer, 
Sidney, Spenser, Milton, Wordsworth, and Cole- 
ridge, is published in a small volume entitled The 
Prelude to Poetry, edited by Ernest Rhys (J. M. 
Dent and Co.). What the poets themselves 
thought about the nature and value of their own 
art is surely of greater interest to lovers of it than 
the disquisitions of critical system makers. 

Alastor 

Alastor is not the name of the hero or any other 
character in the poem — indeed there are no other 
characters. It is a Greek word meaning an evil 
spirit ; Shelley's intention was to set forth solitude 
as evil and even fatal. "The Poet's self-centred 
seclusion was avenged by the furies of an irre- 
sistible passion pursuing him to speedy ruin." 
But Shelley's sympathy is so obviously engaged 
by his picture of the youth enamored of "his own 
imaginations" of "all of wonderful, or wise, or 
beautiful" and uniting them in " a single image," 
that the terror of the poet's fate is less impressive 
than the charm of his lonely and restless pursuit 
of loveliness and truth. The passage here gi\-en 
contains only the characterization of the 3-outh and 
a general account of his early efforts in search of 
truth. The quotation from St. Augustine is from 
the Confessions, Bk. Ill, Chap. I. 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 

Pp. 459 f . The basis of this poem is Plato's 
doctrine of beauty; cf. especially The Banquet. 
It gains new light and interest from a comparison 
with Spenser's Hymn in Honor of Beauty and Hymn 
of Heavenly Beauty (see pp. 120-122), which are 
based upon Neo-Platonism ; that is, upon the ideas 
of Plato as modified by later Christian and' non- 
Christian philosophers and poets. 

The following quotation from Diotima's conver- 
sation, as given by Socrates in Plato's Banquet, 



754 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



gives the principal features of Plato's doctrine of 
beauty ; the translation is Shelley's : 

"He who aspires to love rightly, ought from his 
earliest youth to seek an intercourse with beautiful 
forms, and first to make a single form the object 
of his love, and therein to generate intellectual 
excellences. He ought, then, to consider that 
beauty in whatever form it resides is the brother 
of that beauty which subsists in another form; 
and if he ought to pursue that v/hich is beautiful 
in form, it would be absurd to imagine that beauty 
is not one and the same thing in all forms, and 
would therefore remit much of his ardent prefer- 
ence towards one, through his perception of the 
multitude of claims upon his love. In addition, 
he would consider the beauty which is in souls 
more excellent than that which is in form. So 
that one endowed with an admirable soul, even 
though the flower of the form were withered, 
would suffice him as the object of his love and care, 
and the companion with whom he might seek and 
produce such conclusions as tend to the improve- 
ment of youth ; so that it might be led to observe 
the beauty and the conformity which there is in 
the observation of its duties and the laws, and to 
esteem little the mere beauty of the outward form. 
He would then conduct his pupil to science, so 
that he might look upon the loveliness of wisdom ; 
and that contemplating thus the universal beauty, 
no longer would he unworthily and meanly en- 
slave himself to the attractions of one form in love, 
nor one subject of discipline or science, but would 
turn towards the wide ocean of intellectual beauty, 
and from the sight of the lovely and majestic 
forms which it contains, would abundantly bring 
forth his conceptions in philosophy; until, 
strengthened and confirmed, he should at length 
steadily contemplate one science, which is the 
science of this universal beauty. 

"Attempt, I entreat you, to mark what I say 
with as keen an observation as you can. He who 
has been disciplined to this point in Love, by con- 
templating beautiful objects gradually, and in 
their order, now arriving at the end of all that 
concerns Love, on a sudden beholds a beauty 
wonderful in its nature. This is it, O Socrates, 
for the sake of which all the former labours were 
endured. It is eternal, unproduced, indestruc- 
tible ; neither subject to increase nor decay : 
not, like other things, partly beautiful and partly 
deformed ; not beautiful in the estimation of one 
person and deformed in that of another ; nor can 
this supreme beauty be figured to the imagination 
like a beautiful face, or beautiful hands, or any 
portion of the body, nor like any discourse nor any 



science. Nor does it subsist in any other that lives 
or is, either in earth, or in heaven, or in any other 
place ; but it is eternally uniform and consistent, 
and monoeidic with itself. All other things are 
beautiful through a participation of it, with this 
condition, that although they are subject to prO' 
duction and decay, it never becomes more or less, 
or endures any change. When any one, ascending 
from a correct system of Love, begins to contem- 
plate this supreme beauty, he already touches the 
consummation of his labour. For such as dis- 
ciplined themselves upon this system, or are con- 
ducted by another beginning to ascend through 
these transitory objects which are beautiful, 
towards that which is beauty itself, proceeding as 
on steps from the love of one form to that of two, 
and from that of two to that of all forms which are 
beautiful ; and from beautiful forms to beautiful 
habits and institutions, and from institutions to 
beautiful doctrines ; until, from the meditation of 
many doctrines, they arrive at that which is 
nothing else than the doctrine of the supreme 
beauty itself, in the knowledge and contemplation 
of which at length they repose." 

OZYMANDIAS 

P. 460. This sonnet was written by Shelley in 
friendly competition with Leigh Hunt, who took 
the river Nile as his subject and, on this one occa- 
sion, proved himself Shelley's equal. The theme 
is taken from a passage in Diodorus Siculus, who 
describes the gigantic statue and records the in- 
scription. Here, as elsewhere, Shelley is careless 
of rhyme and other details of form. 

Lines Written among the Euganean 
Hills 

The Euganean HiUs are near Este in Italy, south 
of a line drawn from Padua to Verona. The view 
from Shelley's garden was a wide one east and 
south and west. The mood of the poem is due to 
Shelley's ill health and the recent death of his 
infant daughter. 

P. 461. 11. 212 ff. Cf. Byron's Ode and Words- 
worth's sonnet On the Extinction of llie Venetian 
Republic. The brutal Celt (1. 223) is inaccurately 
applied to the Austrians. 

1. 239. Ezzelin. Ezzelino da Romano (1194- 
1259), successively conqueror of Verona, Padua, 
Vicenza, Feltre, Trento and Brescia, aspired to the 
conquest of Milan and all Lombardy. His cruelty 
was such that his name became proverbial and the 



NOTES 



755 



legend arose that his mother confessed that he was 
the son of Satan himself. He is placed by Dante, 
in the Injcrno, among the tyrants expiating the 
sin of cruelty, and his career was the subject of the 
iirst modern tragedy, the Ecccrinus of Albertino 
Mussato. The dice play by Sin and Death — 
two Miltonic figures — was, according to the 
poet, to decide whether .he should continue his life 
of sin or die. 

11. 256 lif. Padua was the seat of one of the most 
famous universities of mediseval and early modern 
times. 

P. 462. 1. 292. point of heaven's profound, zenith 
of the fathomless depths of air. 

1. T,2,2,. Its, the frail bark's (1. 331). 

Ode to the West Wind 

The poet, despondent and empty of energy, 
appeals for aid to the West Wind of Autumn. 
Stanzas I, II, and III are successive apostrophes 
to the Wind in various functions and aspects. In 
stanzas IV and V he makes his appeal for aid, 
and as his inspiration glows and his pulses quicken, 
he passes from appeals that he may be passively 
subject to the Wind's power — a leaf lifted and 
driven before it, or a lyre responding in mighty 
harmonies to its breath — tc a prayer for active 
union in spirit and power to scatter his thoughts 
among men, and finally reaches a triumphant 
recognition that the coming of Winter is the prom- 
ise of Spring. 

The poem is ver}^ subtly and skilfully con- 
structed. Not only do the last two stanzas recall 
all the activities of the first three, but 11. 64, 65 are 
beautifully associated with 11. 2-14, and the trium- 
phant note of II. 68-70 is prepared for by the words, 

"Thou dirge 
Of the dj'ing year" (11. 23, 24). 

The stanzas are ingeniousl)'^ formed from the 
terza rima, the verse of Dante's Divina Commedia. 
Strictly speaking, the terza rima ' ends with the 
thirteenth line of each stanza; Shelley, in order 
to get a stanzaic efTect, adds another line rhym- 
ing with the thirteenth. The terza rima gives 
him the continuity of movement within the stanza 

^ In lerza rima the first rhyme and the last must 
appear twice and only twice, while each of the other3 
must appear three times. The rhyme formula is 
ababcbcdc . . . xwxyxyzyz. Terza rima is rare in 
English. Other examples of it in this volume are 
Wyatt's Of lite Mcanc and Sure Estate (p. g8) and 
Rossetti's fragment, Francesca da Rimini (p. 629), 
translated from Dante. 



appropriate to his subject; the couplet rhyme 
gives the stanzaic structure necessary to his plan. 

1. 9. Thine azure sister of the spring is not the 
South Wind, as has sometimes been supposed, for 
from ancient times the south wind has been 
dreaded in Italy (see Vergil's Eclogues and 
Georgics, passim). The wind meant is the West 
Wind of the Spring, sister to the West Wind of 
Autumn. 

P. 463. 1. 21. Mcenad. The women who in 
ecstasy took part in the rites of Dionj^sus, with 
flying hair and flaming torches, were called ]\Ice- 
nads (the frenzied ones). Everybody who has not 
already done so should read Professor Gilbert 
Murray's translation of the Bacchcs of Euripides. 

1. 32. A pumice isle is one formed from the lava 
of a volcano. Baim, an ancient Roman pleasure 
resort, is the modern Baja, a few miles west of 
Naples, in a region where nearly extinct volcanoes 
still rumble and spurt feebly. 

The Indian Serenade 

There are several versions of this poem, all 
apparently originating with Shelley himself. 
This explains the variant readings, of which there 
are several, for example : burning for shining (I. 4) ; 
As I must die on thine (1. 15) ; Beloved as thou art 
(1. 16) ; press me to thine own and press it close to 
thine again (1. 23). 

The Cloud 

P. 464. 11. 17-30. SheUey conceives of the 

Lightning as the pilot of the Cloud and as itself 
following the movements of the genii that move 
in the sea. Wherever the Lightning dreams, the 
spirit he loves will be found below — under moun- 
tain or stream. But how does the Lightning dis- 
solve in rain (1. 30) ? One would e.xpect the Cloud 
to do that. 

To A Skylark 

Pp. 465 f . This flood of divine rapture is one of 
the many wonderful poems in English which have 
so impressed lovers of the beautiful, that e\en we 
Americans, to whom the cuckoo, the English 
skylark, and the nightingale are entirely unknown, 
think of these birds as sources of delight, and some 
of us who "meddle with making," as the old 
scribbler said, have even written about them 
without ever having heard a song from their 
throats. Nearly all the poem is devoted to the 
bird itself — the first six stanzas to pure lyric 
outcries, the second six to lyric comparisons with 



756 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



other forms of beauty, then six to a contrast of 
the bird's song of unalloyed happiness with human 
music with its constant undertone of incomplete- 
ness and longing; in the last three stanzas, 
reverting to the appeal of 11. 61-62, the poet longs 
for the skiU of the bird. 

Adonais 

pp. 466 £f. There has been much discussion as 
to the formation of this name, but no entirely satis- 
factory suggestion has yet been made. The sug- 
gestion that it is formed on the model of Thebais, 
a poem by Statins about Thebes, is obviously 
unacceptable, as Adonais is primarily the name, 
not of the poem, but of the subject of it. The 
name — pronounced, of course, as four syllables — 
is at any rate formed from Adonis (see note on 
1. 12), and is intended to suggest his beauty and 
lamentable fate. 

Neither Shelley nor Byron approved of Keats's 
early poems. But Shelley, at least, said of the 
fragment Hyperion that it was "second to nothing 
that was ever produced by a writer of the same 
years," and he was sincerely concerned when he 
heard that Keats was ill. He wrote to Mrs. 
Leigh Hunt: "Where is Keats now? I am 
anxiously expecting him in Italy, where I shall 
take care to bestow every possible attention on 
him. ... I intend to be the physician both of 
his body and his soul. ... I am aware indeed,, 
in part, that I am nourishing a rival who will far 
surpass me; and this is an additional motive, 
and will be an added pleasure." Keats, however, 
went to Rome, and Shelley, who was in Pisa, 
knew of his death only by report, which, as he says 
in his preface, accounts for the fact that he did 
not celebrate in the poem the friendship and care 
of the painter Severn, who "almost risked his 
own life and sacrificed every prospect to unwearied 
attendance upon his dying friend." The poem is 
no less the product of Shelley's indignation against 
reviewers in general and the writer of the savage 
criticism of Endymion in the Quarterly Review 
in particular, than of his sorrow for the death of 
Keats. And it perhaps suffers from what Shelley 
himself calls the "interposed stabs on the assassins 
of his peace and of his fame." Shelley was, of 
course, wrong in supposing that the unfavorable 
criticisms of the Quarterly Review (or the stiU 
more savage ones of Blackwood's Magazine) 
seriously affected the health of Keats. Keats 
himself said : "Praise or blame has but a momen- 
tary^ effect on the man whose love of beauty in the 
abstract makes him a severe critic of his own 



works. My own domestic criticism has given me 
pain without comparison beyond what Black- 
wood's or the Quarterly could possibly inflict — 
and also when I feel I am right, no external praise 
can give me such a glow as my own solitary reper- 
ception and ratification of what is fine. J. S. is 
perfectly right in regard to the slipshod Endymion." 

Adonais, though one of the most beautiful poems 
in the language, is one of the most diiBcult to read 
with thorough comprehension. This arises from 
two facts. In the first place, Shelley was at this 
time steeped in classical literature, and not only 
is his verse packed with classical allusions and 
reminiscences, but his diction also is subtle and 
often affected by classical usage. His confidence 
that the poem had not been "born to an immor- 
tality of oblivion" has, of course, been fulfilled. 
He was no less right in calling it a highly wrought 
piece of art than in declaring that "it is absurd in 
any review to criticise Adonais and, still more, to 
pretend that the verses are bad." In the second 
place, the mysticism of the poem, based in large 
part upon the ideas of Plato, though perhaps fur- 
nishing the sincerest and most effective stanzas, 
involves many difficulties of thought for readers 
who have not already become somewhat familiar 
with these ideas. The best, indeed the indispen- 
sable, method of understanding and appreciating 
the poem thoroughly is to read for the classical 
allusions and reminiscences Bion's Lament for 
Adonis (Idyl I), Moschus's Lament for Bion (Idyl 
III), Theocritus 's Song of Thyrsis (Idyl I), Vergil's 
Eclogues V and X, and Milton's Lycidas; and for 
the mystical ideas, Plato's Timceus, Phccdrus, and 
Phcedo, Spenser's Hymn in Honor of Beauty (p. 
120), and Hymn of Heavenly Beauty (p. 121), and 
Wordsworth's Lines Composed Above Tintern 
Abbey, 11. 93-102 (p. 385). For the doctrine of 
Plato's ideas, some readers may prefer to consult, 
instead of Plato himself, the summar}'^ and discus- 
sion by Walter Pater in Flato and Platonism, Chap. 
VII. It is not enough to consult the works 
enumerated above, when references are given in 
the notes. They should be read after the poem 
has been read carefuUy at least once, and then the 
poem should be read again ; for the study of liter- 
ary relationships becomes vital only when it is 
a study of related wholes, not of minor details. 

The verse is the well-known Spenserian stanza. 
It is interesting to contrast the efi'ect of it as used 
by Shelley with its effect as used by Spenser, on 
the one hand, and Byron, on the other. Although 
the same metrical scheme is used by each of these 
writers, the effects produced are as different as if 
the metrical schemes were entirely different. 



NOTES 



757 



The general outline of the poem may be briefly 
indicated. 11. 1-9, The subject stated. 11. 10- 
72, Appeal to Urania to come where Adonais lies. 
11. 73-153, The lamentations of Dreams, Desires, 
Adorations, Morning, Ocean, Echo, Spring, and 
the Nightingale. 11. 154-189, Contrast between 
the renewal of nature and the fate of man. 11. 190- 
261, The visit of Urania to the bier of Adonais, 
and her lament. 11. 262-315, The visit of the 
"mountain shepherds." U. 316-342, Attack upon 
the critic of the Quarterly. U. 343-369, Denial 
that the passing away from earth is death. 11. 
370-396, The incorporation of Adonais with "the 
loveUness which once he made more lovely" as his 
part in the work of the "One Spirit." U. 397-414, 
The welcome accorded him by "the inheritors of 
unfulfilled renown." 11. 415-459, Rebuke of any 
one so foolish as not to recognize the fate of 
Adonais as a blessed one. 11. 460-495, The thirst 
of the soul for the Absolute, — the Eternal Beauty, 
Light, and Truth. 

1. I. Cf. Bion, U. I ff. 

1. 3. so dear a head. Horace's Odes, I, xxiv, 2. 

1. 4. Hour. Not one of the classical Horae, 
but a personification of the hour made illustrious 
by the death of Keats (cf . obscure in the next fine) . 

1. 10. Where werl thou. Cf . the Song of Thyrsis 
(Theocritus, Idyl I) and Vergil, Eclogue X. 

1. 12. Urania is clearly the Uranian Aphrodite 
discussed in Plato's Banquet, iSo, 187, etc., and 
there identified with the Muse, who is mentioned 
in the Phadrus in the following terms: "But to 
Calliope, the eldest, and Urania, the second of the 
nine, they bare tidings of those who pass their lives 
in philosophic study and the observance of their 
peculiar music, these we know being the muses who 
having heaven for their special sphere, and words 
both divine and human, pour forth the gladdest 
strains." It is the Uranian Aphrodite who is the 
mighty mother of all hving things (1. 10). This 
phase of Aphrodite, or Venus, is not only cele- 
brated by Plato and Greek poets, but is also the 
subject of the magnificent lines with which Lucre- 
tius begins his De Rerum Natura. This explains 
why Adonais is made the son of the Uranian 
Aphrodite in contrast to Adonis, the lover of the 
Pandemian Aphrodite. 

1. 16. melodies, referring not merely to the Ode 
to the Nightingale, but to all the poems written by 
Keats after he became aware of his condition. 

1. 20. wake and weep. Cf. Bion, 11. 3, 4. 

1. 24. where all things wise and fair descend. 
Cf. Bion, 1. 55. 

1. 29. He died. Cf. Moschus, 11. 71 ff., who 
celebrates Homer as Shelley here does Milton. 



P. 467. 1. 36. the third. The other two are 
certainly Homer and Dante. See Shelley's De- 
fense of Poetry, where he not only calls Homer, 
Dante, and Milton the three great epic poets, but 
speaks of Vergil as not among the highest. 

1. 39. "Those who recognize their limita- 
tions"; perhaps a reminiscence of the words of 
Socrates in the Phccdrus: "I possess something 
of prophetic skiU, though no very great amount, 
but like indifferent writers just enough for my 
own purposes." 

1. 46. Cf. Moschus, 11. 74, 75. 

I. 47. Cf. Bion, 1. 59. 

II. 48-49. A reference to Keats's poem Isabella. 
1. 55. Cf. U. 424-437- 

1. 61. Cf. Bion, U. 71 ff. 

1. 63. liquid = serene. Cf. Vergil's Georgics, 
IV, 59; JEneid, X, 272. 

1. 69. The eternal Hunger, the same as invisible 
Corruption (1. 67). 

1. 73. The quick Dreams, the poetical concep- 
tions of Keats, here take the place of the Graces, 
the Muses, etc., of Bion and Moschus. 

1. 78. Cf. "Those thoughts that wander 
through eternity," Paradise Lost, II, 148. 

I. 88. Cf. 1. 14. 

P. 468. I. 127. Lost Echo. Cf. Bion, 11. 35 ff., 
and Moschus, 11. 30-31. 

II. 133, 140, 141. The weU-known stories of 
Echo, Narcissus, and Hyacinthus may be found 
in Gayley's Classic Myths or any classical dic- 
tionary. 

1. 145. Moschus (11. 9 ft"., cf. 11. 45 ff.) also 
calls upon the nightingale to lament for Bion, but 
Shelley has in mind Keats's Ode to a Nightingale, 
as is shown by thy spirit's sister. 

U. 154 ff. The contrast between the yearly 
renewal of the flowers and the finality of human 
death is also the subject of one of the finest pas- 
sages in the Lament for Bion, 11. loi ff. 

P. 469. 1. 172. The leprous corpse, i.e., 
earth. 

I. 186. Mr. W. M. Rossetti's explanation that 
"in this our mortal state death is the solid and 
permanent fact . . . the phenomena of life are 
but like a transitory loan from the great em- 
porium, death," seems out of harmony with the 
context. Throughout the stanza Shelley is talk- 
ing about grief. Read the whole stanza carefull}^ 
and note the must in 1. 188 as well as in 1. 1S6. 

II. 212-213. Cf. what Agathon says of the feet 
of Love in Plato's Banquet, 195. 

1. 219. Blushed to annihilation. The figure is 
rather dilTicult until one remembers that the 
essential nature of death implies paleness. Blush- 



758 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



ing would imply the annihilation of death by 
changing it into life. 

1. 224. The distress of Urania gives encourage- 
ment to Death, who becomes himself again. 

1. 227. A literal translation from Bion, U. 45, 
46. 

P. 470. 1. 238. The unpaskired dragon is the 
critic of the Quarterly, hungry for victims; but, 
as 1. 240 shows, Shelley had in mind the story of 
Perseus and the dragon which was to devour 
Andromeda. 

I. 240. Wisdom, the mirrored shield, is suggested 
by the polished shield of Athene (Goddess of Wis- 
dom), which Perseus used as a mirror v/hen he 
slew Medusa. 

II. 244 ff. The wolves, ravens, and vidtures are 
the detractors of poets in general. 

1. 250. The Pythian of the age is Byron; and 
the one arrow, his famous English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers. 

1. 261. Poets akin to the god-like mind of 1. 258 
as the immortal stars of 1. 256 are to the stin of 1. 

253- 

1. 262. The shepherds come to lament Daph- 
nis in Theocritus, and Lycoris in Vergil, as Keats's 
feUow poets (poetically called shepherds) come to 
lament him. 

1. 264. The Pilgrim of Eternity is Byron. The 
phrase was doubtless suggested by Childe Harold's 
Pilgrimage, Canto III, 1. 629 (see p. 448). 

1. 268. lerne — Ireland. 

1. 269. Thomas Moore wrote many songs 
about the ancient glories and modern sorrows of 
Ireland. Her saddest wrong refers not to any par- 
ticular event, but to her calamitous history in 
general. 

U. 271-306. Shelley himself is the subject of 
these lines, which emphasize his love of beauty 
and his sense of ineffectiveness. Curiously 
enough, some of them, as well as the final lines of 
the poem, are strangely prophetic of the fate 
which actually overtook him. 

I. 276. The fable of Actseon, who was changed 
into a stag and destroyed by his own hounds 
because he had gazed upon Artemis (Diana) 
bathing, may be found in Gayley's Classic 
Myths. 

II. 289-295. This picture seems strangely sug- 
gestive of the god Dionysus, whose mission as set 
forth in the Bacchce of Euripides must have 
seemed to Shelley to resemble his own. 

1. 298. What does partial mean here? 

P. 471. 1. 301. The accents of an unknown land 
most probably means "in imitation of Theocritus, 
Bion, and Moschus" ; for the gentle band (1. 299) is 



composed of English poets, not of the classical 
personages earlier invoked. 

11. 307-315. Leigh Hunt. Shelley explains in 
his preface that he did not know of the services 
of Severn when the poem was written. 

1. 316. Shelley returns to the attack on the 
critic of the Quarterly. Bion is also said by 
Moschus to have drnnk poison, whether literally, 
or, like Keats, figuratively, is unknown. 

I. 325. The critic, because he is anonymous, 
has not even the fame of infamy, as the burner 
of the Temple of Diana at Ephesus has (cf. p. 
183). 

II. 338 ff. The remainder of the poem is largely 
indebted to Plato. The indebtedness is so general 
and pervasive that to appreciate it the reader 
must familiarize himself with the Platonic ideas 
of beauty, love, and the soul. Only a few special 
points will therefore be noted. 

U. 343-357. Cf. the words of Socrates in the 
Phado, 106-110, 114-116. 

11. 345-348. The figure may have been sug- 
gested by the action of the raving Pentheus in the 
Bacchce of Euripides. Dionysus says : — 

"On that he rushed, and there, 

As slaying me in vengeance, stood stabbing the 

thin air." 

P. 472. 1. 381. ^/ajfo'c, moulding, shaping. The 
one Spirit is the absolute existence, the "One" of 
Plato's philosophy as opposed to the "Many," 
i.e., the phenomena of this world, all of which 
are manifestations of this "One." Cf. Spenser's 
Hymn in Honor of Beauty, 11. 29-49 (p. 120). 

U. 399 ff, Chatterton, Sidney, and Lucan are 
all appropriately mentioned as "inheritors of un- 
fulfilled renown," because all of them were cut off 
by death in early manhood. Perhaps few will 
agree with Shelley in feeling that Lucan's suicide 
atoned for his willingness to betray his fellow 
conspirators, though SheUey may have felt that 
he was Justified in the conspiracy. SheUey may 
have been influenced by Plato In ascribing con- 
scious immortality to the souls of these and the 
many whose names on earth are dark (1. 406). 

I. 412. blind — dark. 

II. 422-423. Apparently the meaning is "Keep 
thy heart light, lest thou be overwhelmed with a 
sense of the pettiness of earth and be tempted 
to follow Adonais." 

11. 438-449. This is a beautiful description of 
the place in which Keats lies buried, "the roman- 
tic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that 
city, under the pyramid which is the tomb of 



NOTES 



759 



Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now 
moiiidering and desolate, which formed the circuit 
of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space 
among the ruins, covered in winter with violets 
and daisies. It might make one in love with 
death to thinli that one should be buried in so 
sweet a place." — Shell ey's Preface to Adoiiais.. 

P. 473. 1. 460. Cf. the note on 1. 381. 

1. 461. The same idea in different words. 
That earthly phenomena are shadows cast by 
the Hea\'enly Light is set forth in the seventh 
book of Plato's Republic. 

I. 463. The while radiance of elernity was 
doubtless suggested by the description of heaven 
in Plato's Phccdrus. "Real existence, colorless, 
formless, and intangible, visible only to the in- 
telligence which sits at the helm of the soul . . . 
has its abode in this region." The comparison of 
life to a dome of many colored glass may con- 
ceivab!}' have been suggested by the fable which 
Socrates tells Simmias in the Pba;do to the effect 
that " this earth, if any one should survey it from 
above, is like one of those balls covered with 
tv/elve different pieces of leather, variegated and 
distinguished with colors," though that of course 
is reaU}- a different conception from this. 

II. 478-486. The ideas of this stanza are all 
Platonic. 

Final Chorus from Hellas 

Hellas is a lyrical drama inspired by the procla- 
mation of Greek independence in 182 1 and cele- 
brating this event as preluding the return of the 
"Golden Age." Shelley tells us in a note that the 
Final Chorus was suggested by the prophetic 
visions of Isaiah and Vergil, that is, especially the 
sixty-fifth chapter of Isaiah and the fourth Eclogue 
of Vergil. The student may also compare Pope's 
Messiah, which was likewise suggested by Isaiah 
and Vergil. 

11. 1-18. A belief of the ancients was that at 
the end of many thousand years aU the heavenly 
bodies would have returned to the positions they 
occupied at creation and the events of history 
would begin to repeat themselves. As the 
Golden Age of innocence and happiness was, in 
poetr}' and mythology, placed in the first age of the 
world, its retiu'n was also looked for. In this 
poem Shelley develops in detail this ideal of his- 
toric recapitulation. A new Greece (Hellas) 
shall arise with all the beauties and glories of 
ancient Greek history and poetry : the river 
Peneus, the vale of Tempe, the islands of the 
Cyclades shall again be scenes of pastoral sim- 



plicity and delight; the great adventures of the 
search for the Golden Fleece, the descent of 
Orpheus to Hades to release his lost Eurydice, the 
return of Ulysses, shall all be relived. 

P. 474. 11. 19-24. Pursuing the same idea, the 
poet is shocked by the thought that the evil of 
the past will also be renewed — the Trojan War, 
the dark tragedy of QEdipus — and he prays that 
this may be averted. 

U. 31-34. "Saturn and Love were among the 
deities of a real or imaginary state of innocence 
and happiness. All Ihose who fell, or the gods of 
Greece, Asia and Egypt ; the One who rose, or Jesus 
Christ, at whose appearance the idols of the Pagan 
World were amerced of their worship ; and the 
many unsubdued, or the monstrous objects of the 
idolatry of China, India, the Antarctic islands, 
and the native tribes of America, certainlj' have 
reigned over the understandings of men, in con- 
jimction or in succession." — Shelley's Note. 

JOHN KEATS ' 
Ode to a Nightingale 

The poet, listening to the song of the nightingale, 
is affected to a passion of tearful delight in the 
happiness of the bird (11. i-io), and longs for a 
magical draught of summer that will cause him to 
follow the bird (U. 11-20), leaving behind the fever 
and fret of the world (11. 21-30). Imaginatiou 
fulfils his desire, and he finds himself in the forest 
of his fancy (11. 31-40), a place lighted only by 
moon-beams, and so dim that he discerns the 
flowers about him only by their odors (U. 41-50). 

Resuming the theme of the first stanza, he 
declares that, as he listens in the dark, death 
seems richer and sweeter at the thought that the 
bird's song is immortal (U. 51-70). 

His thoughts are brought back to himself and 
his sorrows by the word "forlorn," and as the song 
of the bird fades away in the distance, he questions 
whether it may not have been "a vision or a 
waking dream." 

In music and suggestiveness of diction, in beauty 
of imagery, in sensuous richness of conceptiop, this 
poem has never been surpassed even by Keats 
himself. It must be read often and in many 
moods, for though its magical charm can be felt 
at a single reading, every rift, to borrow a phrase 
from Keats's advice to SheUey, is loaded with ore. 

P. 475. 1. 9. The shadows are those cast by 
the full moon (see I. 36). 

11. 11-20. The draught that is to transport the 
poet away from the weariness and sorrow of life 



760 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



is no draught of earthly wine (cf. 1. 32), for all its 
taste and color, but the wine of poetic inspiration 
(cf. U. 16, 33). 

1. 14. Provencal poetry, though he knew little 
about it, was always associated in Keats's imagi- 
nation with romantic beauty (cf. The Eve of St. 
Agnes, 1. 292, and La Belle Dame Sans Merci). 

1. 16. Hippocrene, like Lethe (1. 4), Dryad (1. 7), 
Flora (1. 13), Bacchus (1. 32), is fully explained 
in Gayley's Classic Myths. 

I. 32. Bacchus is here only the vulgar god of 
wine, not the mystical god Dionysus. There is 
no better way of appreciating these two different 
phases of the same Greek god than by reading 
in succession the Cyclops and the Bacchce of Eurip- 
ides (Shelley translated the former). 

U. 65-67. Cf. Wordsworth's Solitary Reaper 
for a picture much akin to this. 

II. 69-70. Why these lines suggest to the imagi- 
nation the whole world of romance, it would be 
difi&cult to say. 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 

Pp. 475 f. This urn, like the deep bowl of ivy- 
wood which the Goatherd gave to Thyrsis for sing- 
ing the Affliction of Daphnis (Theocritus, Idyl I), 
was carved with a succession of beautiful scenes and 
figures. No urn exactly answering to that in the 
poem is known ; some editors think Keats had in 
mind a finely carved marble urn that stood in the 
garden of Holland House, but if so, he has not 
described it closely. "Description" is, indeed, 
hardly the term for his method of setting these 
sculptured scenes before our eyes. For him they 
live, and we learn what they are like only from the 
emotions and reflections they produce in him. 
The carvings of the Goatherd's bowl are perhaps 
no less beautiful, but the descriptions of them are 
simple and uncolored by emotion or reflection. 

The urn seems to present two main scenes : 
(i) the rout of fleeing maidens and pursuing men 
of U. 8-10; and (2) the sacrificial procession of 
11. 31-37. The youth piping beneath the trees 
(1. is) and the bold lover (1. 17) who has almost 
caught the maiden, are apparently details of the 
first scene; and the little town of silent streets 
(11. 38-39) is obviousl}' not in, the picture, but only 
inferred by the poet from the crowd that follows 
the priest and the sacrificial victim to the forest 
altar, — which also is not visible except to the 
imagination of the poet. 

The fundamental idea of the poem is, of course, 
the permanence of all these beautiful forms and 
the consequent permanence of their wild rapture 



and quiet happiness, as contrasted with the tran- 
siency of human happiness and the cloying of 
human passion that wins to its goal. 

1. I. imramshed, because preserving its purity 
and beauty. 
, 1. 2. foster-child, because nursed by them. 

1. 3. Sylvan historian, because telling tales of 
woods, as well as of men (cf. 11. 15, 21, 32, 43), 

P. 476. 1. 7. Tempe and Arcady, delightful re- 
gions in Greece, famous in mythology and poetry ; 
for particulars, see Gayley. 

Ode 

p. 477. This charming ode, ascribing to the 
poets of the past, two lives, one in heaven, and the 
other, through their poems, here on earth, shows 
a sense of mirth and humor in dealing with a 
serious subject that seldom appears in Keats's 
verse, but is very frequent in his letters. In U. 29— 
36 we have the same idea as in Wordsworth's 
Personal Talk, U. 51-56 (p. 391). 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 

This poem, a companion piece in the same 
metre and manner as the preceding, is even lighter 
in tone. Keats might have shrunk from being 
"disrespectful to the Equator," but he certainly 
treats the Zodiac with delightful levity. 

The Mermaid Tavern was the resort of Beau- 
mont and Fletcher, Ben Jonson, Shakespeare, and 
their fellows (see Beaumont's Letter to Ben 
Jonson, p. 174 of this volume). 

1. 19. Why new old-sign? 

1. 22. Which of the signs of the Zodiac is the 
Mermaid ? 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 

The title of this poem (The Beautiful Lady with- 
out Mercy) is taken from one written in French 
by Alain Chartier about 1400. Keats seems to 
have thought it was written in Provencal (cf. 
The Eve of St. Agnes, 1. 292). The English trans- 
lation of it by Richard Ros was accessible to him 
among the poems ascribed to Chaucer in Chalmers' 
English Poets, but its mediocre quality did not pre- 
vent him from being fascinated by the title and 
writing a poem to suit it. 

It is not a poem that the student should try to 
analyze or reason about. It is the expression of a 
romantic mood by means of a combination of 
romantic figures and imagery with wonderful 
verbal music. It should, however, be read with 



NOTES 



761 



recognition of the art with 'which the withered 
sedge, the lonely lake, the fairy lady, the vision of 
the pale kings and princes who had been her 
victims, and, indeed, all the details, are combined 
to harmonize with the figure of the knight; and 
all to develop the suggestions of the title. 

SONNETS 

Pp. 478 f. Among the comparatively few 
masters of the sonnet, Keats ranks very high. The 
six chosen for this volume of selections illustrate 
various themes and moods. None of them requires 
any explanation. With that on The Grasshopper 
and the Cricket the student maj^ compare Lovelace's 
Tlie Grasshopper, p. 218. The pedant has long 
been shocked to note that in the one On First 
Looking into Chapman's Homer Keats has ascribed 
to Cortez a feat performed by Balboa, and has 
extended the bounds of Darien perhaps unwar- 
rantably. But the poem as a poem is none the 
less admirable on those accounts. 

Wordsworth has a line sonnet To Sleep (p. 39s), 
which it is interesting to compare with Keats's 
on the same subject. It is somewhat character- 
istic of the two poets that Wordsworth woos Sleep 
as the — 

"Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 
health," 

whereas Keats mingles with a sensuous pleasure 
in sleep itself a yearning for it as shutting out the 
cares and sorrows of life. Wordsworth's is a iine 
wholesome poem ; Keats's is a subtle and rich work 
of sensuous art, almost every line of which is a 
masterpiece of thought and phrasing. 

ENDYinON 

Pp. 479 f . In this poem Keats follows that form 
of the Endymion myth which represents him as a 
shepherd lad. The scene is laid in ancient Greece, 
and the rivers, fountains, meadows, and forests 
are peopled by the beautiful creatures of Greek 
fancy — nymphs, dr^-ads, oreads, fauns, etc. 
That the beauty of the poem is too elaborate, 
too rich, too overcharged with ornament and sen- 
timent, Keats himself recognized; but it was a 
youthful production and he knew that he could 
free himself from the faults it contained and 
develop into greater soliditj' and strength the 
beauties it undeniably possessed. The fact is 
that Keats regarded all his work, as he says in his 
letters, as mere experiments, exercises in composi- 
tion to prepare him for the great and serious work 



which he planned to do when mind and character 
were riper and more richly furnished with the 
wisdom of life. 

Lines 1-33 — a proem on the influence and value 
of beauty -^ give his reasons for choosing this sub- 
ject. Lines 540-671 describe the first meeting of 
EndymJon and the Moon Goddess, Diana. 

Hyperion 

Pp. 481 f. The subject of Hyperion is the over- 
throw of the older gods bj^ the younger, especially 
of the old sun deity Hyperion by the new sun-god 
Apollo. The chief older gods, or Titans, were 
Oceanus and Tethys, Hyperion and Thea, Chronos 
(or Saturn) and Rhea, Japetus, Themis, and 
Mnemosyne. In the new order Oceanus was re- 
placed by Neptune, Hyperion by Apollo, and 
Saturn by Jupiter. The theme is really the eter- 
nal coniiict between the old order of established 
power and peace and the new order of aggressive- 
ness and progress. Although the poem shows 
a great improvement in power and restrained 
beauty over Endymion, Keats did not finish it — 
perhaps because he felt that he was not yet mature 
enough for the great demands of such a theme. 

1. 21. Gaea (or Earth) was the mother of the 
older gods ; Uranus (or Heaven) their father. 

1. 23. there came one, Thea. 

1. 30. Ixion was bound to a revolving wheel in 
Tartarus (Hell) for boasting that Juno loved him. 

I. 51. To = compared to. 

II. 83-4. A month had passed. 

1. 129. ^ATiat is implied by metropolitan? 

The Eve of St. Agnes 

Pp. 482 ff. The poem is a simple story of two 
lovers separated, like Romeo and Juliet, by the 
enmity of their families, and of their elopement on 
St. Agnes' Eve. The scene is laid in feudal times, 
and the date chosen is the night on which, ac- 
cording to popular superstition, a girl may have a 
vision of her true lover if she performs certain 
ceremonies. The poem itself tells all that is neces- 
sary for its interpretation, but those who wish a 
prose account of the superstitions may consult 
Chambers' Book of Days or Brand's Popular 
Antiquities. 

I. I. St. Agnes' Eve, the night of January 20. 

II. 5 ff. Beadsman, a beadsman was one paid or 
maintained to pray for his benefactor or others. 
This one is represented as praying in the chapel of 
the castle before the picture of the Virgin, .\bout 
him, on their tombs enclosed with iron railings or in 



762 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



oratories (alcoves along the walls), are the scvilp- 
tured figures of the dead with their hands folded as 
if in prayer. 

1. 71. On account of her name and her inno- 
cence the lamb (Latin agnus) is associated with St. 
Agnes. Eight days after her martyrdom, her 
parents, praying at her tomb, saw a vision of 
angels, among whom was their daughter, and be- 
side her a lamb white as snow. 

P. 484. 1. 116. The nuns who weave the 
sacred wool of St. Agnes' lambs ; of the ceremonies 
on her day in Rome, Naogeorgus, as translated by 
Barnaby Googe, says : 

"For in St. Agnes' church upon this day while 

masse they sing. 
Two lambes as white as snowe the nonnes do yearely 

use to bring, 
And when the Agnus chaunted is upon the aulter 

hie 
(For in this thing there hidden is a solemne 

mysterie). 
They offer them. The servants of the Pope, when 

this is done. 
Do put them into pasture good till shearing time 

be come. 
Then other wooU they mingle with these holy 

fleeces twaine, 
Whereof, being sponne and drest, are made the 

pals [palls] of passing gaine." 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

Pp. 487 ff. Landor's temperament was very 
erratic and volcanic. In singular contrast, his 
verse, as well as his prose, is distinguished by re- 
serve and moderation of expression, sometimes, 
indeed, lapsing into the prosaic. He often has 
lines and short passages of an exquisite quiet 
beauty and suggestiveness, but never succeeds in 
maintaining a high poetic level throughout a long 
poem. It is not strange that only the finest of 
his poems, like Rose Aylmer and the others given 
here, have attained general currency. Each of 
these is written, as it were, in a single flash of in- 
spiration, and each incorporates in a form of ulti- 
mate beauty thoughts and feelings that awaken an 
almost universal response. 

JES0¥ AND RhODOPE 

The suggestion for this dialogue Landor took 
from Herodotus, who says that ^^sop and Rho- 
dope were both slaves in the same household. 
/Esop was the famous writer of fables, of whom 



little is known except that he was a Phrygian who 
lived about 600 B.C. Traditionally he was 
hunchbacked and ugly. Rhodope or Rhodopis 
(the rose-faced) was a Thracian, whom her master 
Xanthus took to 'Egypt. Sappho's brother fell 
in love with her and purchased her freedom, as 
appears from one of Sappho's poems. Strabo 
tells of her a story which is the oldest form of one 
episode in the tale of Cinderella. It is that while 
she was bathing, an eagle flew away with one 
of her shoes and dropped it in the lap of the King 
of Eg)qDt. He was so attracted by the beauty of 
the foot suggested by it and by the strangeness of 
the circumstance that he sent out messengers to 
find the owner of the shoe and married her. 

The story of the way in which Rhodope came to 
be a slave was invented by Landor. 

Rose Aylmer 

P. 492. This beautiful and suggestive elegy 
contains aU the elements of the poetry of per- 
sonal loss — the reflection that no virtue or power 
could save the beloved one, and the expression of 
the poet's own sorrows. Those prosaic souls who 
have objected that one night is little to conse- 
crate to the memory of a friend so beloved are 
inaccessible . to the effects of suggestion and in- 
capable of understanding that the poet's sense 
of loss can be permanent unless he tells them 
explicitly that he will never get over it. 

A Fie SOLAN Idyl 

Fiesole (pr. Fee ay' so le) is an ancient town 
situated at the summit of a small mountain of the 
same name that rises with a steep slope on the 
outskirts of Florence. The idyl is a sweet, small 
poem, presenting, as in a picture, a single, simple 
incident. The poet hears a rustling among the 
orange trees on the slope of the mountain, and, 
finding a graceful yoimg girl gathering flowers, 
helps her pull down the branches that are too high 
for her to reach. Then comes the delicate em- 
barrassment of both, when she wishes, but hardly 
dares, to offer him a large sweet blossom, and he 
dares not assume that she means to offer or that 
he ought to take it. Incidentally the poet's Jove 
and tender care of flowers is exquisitely expressed 
(11. 16-33)- 

On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday 

P. 493. The only thing that has ever been un- 
favorably criticised in this poetic summary of 



NOTES 



763 



Landor's life, and his contentment v.-ith what it has 
brought him, is the supposed egotism of the iirst 
line. But if a man loves nature and art and de- 
votes himself to them (warming "both hands be- 
fore the fire of life") and to the expression of his 
love for them, he may well feel that striving with 
other men is silly and unworthy of him. 



THE VICTORIAN AGE 

THOMAS CARLYLE 

Sartor Resartus 

Pp. 497 fif. In reading Sartor Resartus, it is 
well to remember that Carlyle had a Scotch tem- 
perament and that he purposely adopted German 
modes of thought and phrasing. The first results 
in a picturesque half-suppressed violence in the 
utterance of the emotions with which his philos- 
ophy of life was surcharged, and the second gives 
his style the complexity and elaboration that char- 
acterize much German philosophical writing. He 
chose for the vehicle of the message embodied in 
Sartor Resartus an imaginary German professor 
whom he calls Teufelsdrockh of VVeissnichtwo 
(Don't-know-where). Under the pretence that 
he has met this man and become impressed with 
his ideas, Carl\-le represents himself as translating 
his biography into English. The materials of this 
biography, he says, reached him in the following 
form : 

"Six considerable PAPER-BAGS, carefully- 
sealed, and marked successively, in gilt China 
ink, with the symbols of the Six southern Zodiacal 
Signs, beginning at Libra ; in the inside of which 
sealed Bags lie miscellaneous masses of Sheets, 
and oftener Shreds and Snips, written in Professor 
Teufelsdrockh's scarce legible cursiv-schrift ; and 
treating of all imaginable things under the Zodiac 
and above it. . . ." 

By this device Carlyle obtains the greatest pos- 
sible freedom in the expression of his ideas. He 
begins with the idea suggested by Swift in his 
Tale of a Tub (p. 248 above), choosing the title 
Sartor Resartus (the tailor re-tailored) to show that 
he meant to tear away the outward appearances of 
life in order to get at its real meaning. He sums 
up the purpose of the book thus : 

"Have many British readers actually arrived 
with us at the new promised country; is the 
Philosophy of Clothes now at last opening around 
them? Long and adventurous has the journey 
been: from those outmost vulgar, palpable 



Woollen Hulls of Man; through his wondrous 
Flesh-Garments, and his wondrous Social Garni- 
tures ; inwards to the Garments of his very Soul's 
Soul, to Time and Space themselves ! And now 
does the spiritual, eternal Essence of Man, and of 
Mankind, bared of such wrappages, begin in any 
measure to reveal itself? Can many readers dis- 
cern, as through a glass darkly, in huge wavering 
outlines, some primeval rudiments of Man's 
Being, what is changeable from what is un- 
changeable?" 

He criticises its character and value as follows : 

"It was in this high moment, when the soul, 
rent, as it were, and shed asunder, is open to inspir- 
ing influence, that I first conceived this Work on 
Clothes : the greatest I can ever hope to do ; which 
has already, after long retardations, occupied, and 
will yet occupy, so large a section of my life. . . ." 

The three chapters given in this book form a 
thought-unit, showing Carlj'le's growth from 
pessimism and despair to the foundation of his 
particular form of optimism, that the supreme 
need of the soul is to express itself in some sort of 
work. 

There is much autobiography even in the de- 
tails of the book, and as a spiritual history, it is 
entirely autobiographical. 

THOMAS, LORD MACAULAY 

Pp. 510 fif. The long selection from Macaulay's 
famous chapter on the state of England at the time 
of the Revolution of iGSSas out of proportion to his 
importance among writers of English prose; but 
teachers who are tired of reading over and over 
again his biographical sketches will doubtless 
welcome it as a change, and both teachers and 
pupils will surely find it valuable for the vivid 
picture it gives of the physical and social back- 
ground against which so large a part of English 
literature must be seen if it is to be seen truly. 
Moreover, in style it presents Macaulay at his best, 
and Macaulay at his best is a triumph of clear and 
vivid common sense. He is, to be sure, one-sided ; 
he was not a big enough man to have an aU-round 
vision or a subtle enough man to observe distinc- 
tions and shades that make all the difference in the 
final accuracy of a picture, and he has no real 
philosophy of history. He is pompous, rhetorical, 
even blatant at times; but he is one of the first 
writers of history in English who gets beyond the 
point of stringing together and weighing events 
merely as events. He really constructs pictures 
that enable us to realize the times and the men 
about which he is writing. 



764 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 

Pp. 518 £f. In 185 1 the Catholics of Ireland 
founded a University in Dublin. Newman was 
called upon to speak on the occasion, and delivered 
nine lectures which were published under the title 
The Idea of a University. He himself was chosen 
as rector of the newly-founded university ; but it 
was a failure from the first, partly through lack of 
government support, and partly because Newman 
himself lacked executive ability. 

The lectures themselves may, perhaps, be 
summed up, in a phrase used by Newman himself 
in the passage chosen for this book, as inspired by 
" clear, calm, accurate vision." And it was largely 
this clearness, this poise, this precision, that made 
Newman such a power in his day. 

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

The Lady of Shalott 

Pp. 523 f. Like Keats's La Belle Dame Sans 
Merci, this poem seems to have been suggested by 
its title. In this case, as in the other, the piece 
from which the title was taken bears little relation 
to the poem suggested by it. The curious may 
read the story of La Donna di Scalotta in the old 
Italian Cento Novelle Antiche, where it is No. 81 
(tr. Roscoe, Italian Novelists, Vol. I). This is 
Tennyson's first attempt to deal with a theme 
taken from the stories that clustered about King 
Arthur and his knights.' Here the interest lies 
not in the story as such, but in the mood of the 
poet and the suggested but indefinite symbolism 
of the poem. The key to the symbohsm of the 
poem is said by Tennyson's son to lie in 11. 69-72 
and to consist in the entrance of human interests 
into the world of shadows in which the Lady had 
lived. It is hardly possible, and certainly unnec- 
essary, to attempt to find a ' definite symbolic 
meaning for every detail of the situation and 
narrative. 

The poem is divided into four parts, each 
devoted to a single phase of the theme. Part I 
sets before us the lonely situation of the Lady in 
the gray-walled island tower beside the thronged 
road to Camelot. Part II emphasizes her isola- 
tion from the world of realities and her contact 
with life only through the shadows in the magic 
mirror, which apparently she reproduces in her 
magic web as her fragment of the dream of human 
life. In Part III, half-sick of shadows as she has 
become, she sees the brilliant figure of Sir Lancelot 
in the mirror, and, in spite of the curse that will 



come upon her, she leaves her web and for the first 
time sees in direct vision the world of nature, 
represented by the water lily, and the world of 
mankind, represented by Lancelot, whom she lias 
loved at first sight. In Part IV the curse has 
come upon her, and real life is broken for her, as 
was the mirror in which she saw the world of 
shadows. When the boat bearing her body floats 
down the stream to Camelot, Lancelot, though aU 
unaware of her love for him, is touched by admira- 
tion and pity, and breathes a prayer for her. 

A Dream of Fair Women 

Pp. 524 ff. The style of this poem is rich and 
elaborate in three ways. In the first place Tenny- 
son's imagination is largely pictorial ; he visualizes 
the scenes and persons and objects of his story, and 
the reader who would perfectly recreate in his 
own mind the poet's conception must try to 
catch every hint given by the words of the poem 
and reconstruct the pictorial images. This is 
true not only of such striking figures as Cleo- 
patra with her wild exotic beauty or Jephthah's 
daughter, the embodiment of maidenly sweetness 
and filial submission until, at the thought of 
the victory over Ammon, her face glows with a 
light that would be savage if it were not Biblical ; 
it is true, also, of such incidentals as the dim red 
morn lying dead and pale across the threshold 
of the sun, and the bizarre emphasis given to the 
dark silent forest by the red anemone that burned 
among the lush green grasses. Everywhere, in 
almost every stanza, the reader must move slowly, 
must read carefully, must let every word play its 
due part in the elaborate and highly colored pic- 
tures that hovered in the poet's vision. 

The second element of richness and elaborate- 
ness of effect is due to the fact that in the poet's 
mind many of the rich pictures of the poem itself 
exist in a very atmosphere of beauty and pathos 
created for him by poets and painters and sculp- 
tors who have treated these same things before 
him. As he sees in his vision Helen and Iphigenia, 
his memory is filled with the music of the Iliad 
and the choral measures of ^schylus and Sopho- 
cles, and he sees not only these women and the 
vivid picture of the death of one of them, but aU 
the heroes who went out from Greece to battle 
on the windy plains of Troy, the fatal return of 
Agamemnon to his dishonored home, and the 
vengeance of Electra and Orestes. The discon- 
nected pictures of ancient strife and wrong that 
pass before his eyes before he fully falls asleep 
— the lances in ambush, the attack on the walled 



NOTES 



765 



city, the heated blasts bursting in the doors of de- 
filed sanctuaries — aU these come with a thousand 
recollections of wild tales in mediceval romances 
and chronicles. And the praise of Chaucer and 
of the great literature of the Elizabethan age are 
the echoes of hundreds of hours of delight spent in 
reading. There is no method, as has been said, 
of suppl)dng the reader suddenly with all this 
experience of literature, with aU these associations, 
with all this richness of emotional life. An editor 
may cite examples to explain every line, may pile 
up instance upon instance until the intellect is 
thoroughly convinced that such things were 
common, but not in this way can the reader gain 
those associations and memories which alone give 
significance and power to the great figures of 
history and romance and myth or the scenes and 
manners of past ages. The only method is to do 
as the poet himself has done, — read these poems 
and histories, and amass the associations and 
emotions of this experience with literature. 

The third element is the rich and elaborate 
diction. Here, as with the first element, we are 
on easier ground; we are deaUng with matters 
which the intellect and imagination can compass 
immediately by knowledge and native vigor. 
Such lines as, — 

"The maiden splendours of the morning star," 

(1- 55), 
"A daughter of the gods, divinely tail, 
And most divinely fair," (11. 87-88), 
"The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes," (1. 91), 
"The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes," 

(1. Ill), 
"A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black 
eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold," (11. 127-128), 

reveal their meanings at once to any one who 
has imagination. But sometimes Tennyson sub- 
stitutes the ornate and elaborate for the simpl'e 
and imaginative, and produces lines that require 
some ingenuity for interpretation. How many a 
reader has not beaten his brains to find out what 
is meant in 1. i by "before my eyehds dropt 
their shade"! It is, indeed, a rather elaborate 
way of saying, "before I closed my eyes to sleep," 
and the feeling that it must mean more is so 
strong that some will still strive vainly for a 
more mystical interpretation, in spite of the fact 
that the poem obviously narrates the events of 
one night, when the poet, after reading Chaucer, 
passes through that stage of visions which pre- 
cedes sleep, into a sleep of dreams and finally 



wakes and tries to recall his dreams. "The 
crested bird that claps his wings at dawn" (11. 
179 f.) has also shed much ink. If Tennyson 
meant the cock andtook this method of slipping 
that brilliant but rather prosaic fowl into his be- 
diamonded poetry, we may be glad that it is pos- 
sible to rescue him by arguing in favor of the 
crested lark of Theocritus and insisting that no 
modern student of poetry, as Tennyson was, could 
write 

"That claps his wings at dawn," 

without remembering those exquisite lines of John 
Lyly's : 

"Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings, 
The morn not waking tillshe sings." 

Termyson's poem, though obviously suggested 
by Chaucer's Legend of Good Women, bears only 
superficial and unessential resemblances to it. It 
is true that both poems deal with iU-fated fair 
women, that in both the poet dreams, and it is 
even possible that Tennyson has taken from 
other of Chaucer's poems the thoroughly con- 
ventional device of falling asleep after reading a 
book that determines the subject of his dream. 
But aside from the fact that Chaucer's style is 
simple and his mood relaxed and easy, while 
Tennyson's style is ornate and his mood one of 
the utmost intensity, the purely external features 
are very different. The scene of Chaucer's dream 
is a meadow filled with all the gladness of a May 
morning, — singing birds and blossoming flowers 
and "softe, swote, greene grass"; the scene of 
Tennyson's is an ancient wood, oppressive with 
huge elms, hanging vines, dark walks, a deadly 
silence, and a pale chill light from the dying dawn. 
Chaucer meets in his dream the brilliant God of 
Love and his queen, accompanied by a group of 
charming maidens, and for sufficiently valid 
reasons promises to write each succeeding year 
the story of some fair woman who had been 
faithful though unfortunate in love; Tennyson 
meets and converses for a few vivid moments with 
women, fair and unfortunate, but by no means 
chiefly "Love's martyrs." It seems not improb- 
able that Tennyson may have been, consciously 
or unconsciousl}', influenced bj- the procession of 
noble ladies with whom Odysseus spoke in Hades 
{Odyssey, Bk. XI). 

The structure of the poem is very simple and 
clear : 

11. 1-13. What the poet had been reading and 
the immediate effect of it. 

11. 13-52. He muses on what he has read, and 



766 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



visions of ancient strife and wrong pass in vivid 
pictures before his eyes, as he is falling asleep. 

11. 53-84. He then dreams he is in a great forest, 
made gloomy by its huge trees, its dank festoons 
of jasmine, its long, dark, dew-drenched walks, its 
uncanny silence, and the cold pale light that fol- 
lowed the fading of the first dim flush of mom. 
His melancholy is increased by the odor of hidden 
violets bringing memories of happier times, and 
a voice within him tells him he will always stay 
in this dark wood. 

U. 85-260. There come before him in his dream • 
women like those of Chaucer's Legend, beautiful 
heroines of tragic story — Helen of Troy, Iphi- 
genia, Cleopatra, Jephthah's daughter, and the ill- 
fated Rosamond. 

11. 261-272. Then as he slowly awakes, he 
catches glimpses of certain other ill-starred hero- 
ines, — Margaret Roper, Joan of Arc, and Eleanor, 
wife of Edward I. 

11. 273-288. With difficulty he recalled his 
dream and often vainly strove to strike again into 
the same dream. 

Details that may deserve explanation or com- 
ment are the following : — 

P. 525. 11. 17-52. The vividness of these hyp- 
nagogic figures approaches nearly to hallucina- 
tion. Every one has, at times, in falling asleep 
slowly, had more or less vivid images pass before 
his eyes. Some persons have them constantl}'. 
Tennyson may have been more than usually sensi- 
tive to them. See the remarks on St. Agnes' Eve 
for what he says of his experiences of trance-like 
seizures, and compare also De Quincey, p. 438. 

U- 73~76. Apparently the poet makes the un- 
blissful wood of his dream one which he had known 
in real life under happier circumstances. Dante's 
famous Unes : — 

"Nessun maggior dolore 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
NeUa miseria," 

it will be remembered, had impressed him when 
he was a boy of twelve, long before he so tawdrily 
translated them as 

"A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering hap- 
pier things," 

and it may be that here and in 11. 77-80 he 
shaped his poem in accordance with them. 

P. 526. 1. 87. The beauty and self-sufficing- 
ness of this line sometimes make us forget, what 
the poet remembered, that Helen was, according 
to the myth, the daughter of Zeus, and therefore 
divinely tall. 



11. 100-116. In his picture of Iphigenia, Temiy- 
son apparently foUows the story as told in the 
first Chorus of the Agamemnon of ^schylus, 
with perhaps recollections of the Electra of Soph- 
ocles, but there are also expressions which indi- 
cate that the touching scenes of Iphigenia in 
Aulis were in his mind, though he necessarily 
rejected the vicarious sacrifice narrated by Eurip- 
ides. There is no way to obtain the fuU effect 
of this passage but to read these plays. 

11. 118-120. These words of Helen's are almost 
a transcript of what she says in the Iliad, VI, 345 
ff., to Hector when Paris seems slow to prepare for 
battle : — 

"My brother, even mine, that am a dog mis- 
chievous and abominable, would that on the day 
when my mother bare me at the first, an evil 
storm-wind had caught me away to a mountain 
or a billow had swept me away before all these 
things came to pass." 

11. 127-128. Critics have chided Tennyson for 
forgetting that Cleopatra was a Greek, fair and 
blue-eyed ; but he saw the Cleopatra of romance, 
not her of history. And this one must be swarthy 
and bold-eyed, as Tennyson saw her; a "gypsy" 
with a "tawny front" as she appeared to Shake- 
speare's Mark Antony. 

■P. 527. 1. 174. Clearly Tennyson did not 
visualize this image, or he would have cancelled it. 
It is neither beautiful nor possible as a picture. 

11. 177-242. The story of Jephthah's daughter, 
in Judges, xi, should be read, even if it is already 
familiar. 

P. 528. 11. 249-260. The romance of Rosa- 
mond and Henry II of England and her death at 
the hands of his queen, Eleanor, are told in almost 
every history of England. 

1. 259. Some of the commentators seem to have 
missed the point of Cleopatra's mention of Fulvia. 
As she counsels Rosamond to use the dagger, 
her own rival, Fulvia, comes to her mind, as in 
Shakespeare's play, and, forgetting Rosamond and 
Eleanor, she herself becomes heroine and prime 
actor in the imagined event. 

1. 266. The devotion of Margaret Roper to her 
father. Sir Thomas More, is one of the fine inci- 
dents of history. To feel it as Tennyson did, one 
must know, as perhaps one may from Green's 
History of the English People, the power and charm 
of Sir Thomas More and his tragic fate. 

1. 268. This line, with its reticence and modera- 
tion, suggests to one familiar with the wonderful 
Story of the Maid of Orleans aU the glamour and 



NOTES 



767 



beauty that attach to one of the most romantic 
and mysterious figures the world has ever seen. 

11. 285-288. This ending is weak, because it is 
very obscure. The difticulty is not so much 
with the rhetorical figures of the chosen words 
withering beneath the palate and the heart faint- 
ing in its own heat as with the doubt whether 
these four lines are to be taken with 11. 281-284, or 
whether they really comaect in thought, though 
not in S3'ntax, with the eilorts of the poet to recall 
and record the glimpses of his dream. 

MoRTE D 'Arthur 

This is Tennyson's earliest attempt at the epic 
treatment of Arthurian romance, and the treat- 
ment is simply epic, not allegorical, as is the case 
with the Idylls written after 1859. The imme- 
diate source of the poem is Sir Thomas Malory's 
famous Morte Darthur (Bk. XXI, Chaps. 4 and 5). 
It wiU be observed that Teimyson follows Malory 
very closely, though there are some interesting 
changes. 

Tennyson himself speaks of the poem as full of 
faint Homeric echoes, but there are few of any 
significance. The most interesting is 11. 105-106, 
which seem to echo the words of Hephaistos, 
Iliad, xviii, 400 ff. : "Nine years with them [the 
sea-nymphs Thetis and Eurynome] I wrought 
much cunning work of bronze, brooches and spiral 
arm-bands and cups and necklaces, in the hollow 
caves, while around me the stream of ocean with 
murmuring foam flowed infinite." There are also 
faint echoes of other classical writers, the most 
important being I. 60, a close rendering of Mneid, 
iv, 285, \'iii, 20, and 1. 240, perhaps an echo of 
Lucretius, Dc Rer. Nat., iii, 976 f. : — 

" Cedit enim, rerum nouitate extrusa, uetustas 
Semper, et ex aliis aliud reparare necesse est"; 

for the idea, cf. also Plato's Banquet, 207-208. 

1. I. Chapter 4 of Malory's account teUs how 
the battle raged all day long, till all were dead in 
both armies except King Arthur, Syr Bedwere, 
and his brother Syr Lucan. 

1. 8. In Malory, Arthur is borne to the little 
chapel by the two brothers, but Syr Lucan dies 
soon after. Tennyson has omitted Lucan in order 
to concentrate attention on Arthur and Bedivere. 

P. 529. 11. 38, 44. Note the epic repetition 
here. Collect other examples from the poem. 
This is, perhaps, due to the influence of liomer. 

P. 530. 1. 123. Note the archaic character of 
the syntax here and elsewhere. It is meant to 



give dignity to the language and to suggest an- 
tiquity. 

U. 169-1 70. The passage from the Agamemnon, 
240, cited by Mustard does not seem to express 
the same idea as this: "She smote each of her 
sacrificers with a piteous glance from her eye, 
remarkable in her beauty as in a picture." 

P. 531. 1. 255. A Platonic idea, taken over 
directly or indirectly by many later writers, 
among them Boethius (cf. Chaucer's translation of 
Boethius, Ek. I, Metre v, and Bk. II, Metre viii, 
where the chain is Love). 

11. 260 ff. The relation of Avilion to other 
ideal lands is uncertain. These lines may have 
been suggested by the description of Olympus in 
the Odyssey, vi, 43 ff . But they are more like the 
description of the Earthl}^ Paradise in Lactantius, 
De Ave Fhcenice, 1-30, expanded into eighty-five 
lines in the Anglo-Saxon translation (Bright's 
Anglo-Saxon Reader contains both versions) ; for 
a modern Enghsh rendering see Cook and Tinker's 
Old English Poetry. The Celtic conception of the 
Otherworld is similar, and is given in se\"eral of 
the older poems. 

1. 267. Tennyson cannot have failed to remem- 
ber the beautiful passage in which Socrates argues 
that the dying swan does not sing for grief but 
as "foreseeing the blessings of the other world," 
Phcedo, 85. 

Ulysses 

P.. 532. "Ulysses," says Tennyson, "was 
written soon after Arthur HaUam's death and gave 
my feeling about going forward and braving the 
struggle of hfe perhaps more simply than any- 
thing in In Memoriam" {Alfred Lord Tennyson, a 
Memoir, by his son, I, p. 196). It is based upon 
the following passage in Dante's Divina Commedia, 
Inferno, XXVI, 90-142 : — 

" When I departed from Circe, who had retained 
me more than a year there near to Gaeta, before 
/Eneas had so named it, neither fondness for my 
son, nor piety for my old father, nor the due love 
that should have made Penelope glad, could oxer- 
come within me the ardor that I had to gain ex-peri- 
ence of the world and of the vices of men, and of 
their valor. But I put forth on the deep open 
sea, with one vessel only, and with that little com- 
pany by which I had not been deserted. One 
shore and the other I saw as far as Spain, far as 
Morocco and the island of Sardinia, and the rest 
which that sea bathes round about. I and my com- 
panions were old and slow when we came to that 
narrow strait where Hercules set up his bounds, 



768 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



to the end that man may not put out beyond. On 
the right hand I left Seville, on the other already 
I had left Ceuta. 'O brothers,' said I, 'who 
through a hundred thousand perils have reached 
the West, to this so little vigil of your senses that 
remains be ye un willing to deny the experience, fol- 
lowing the sun, of the world that hath no people? 
Consider ye your origin ; ye were not made to live 
as brutes, but for pursuit of virtue and of knowl- 
edge.' With this little speech I made my compan- 
ions so eager for the road that hardly afterwards 
could I have held them back. And turning our 
stern to the morning, with our oars we made wings 
for the mad flight, always gaining on the left-hand 
side. The night saw now all the stars of the other 
pole, and ours so low that it rose not forth from 
the ocean floor. Five times rekindled and as 
many quenched was the light beneath the moon, 
since we had entered on the deep pass, when there 
appeared to us a mountain dim through the dis- 
tance, and it appeared to me so high as I had not 
seen any. We rejoiced thereat, and soon it turned 
to lamentation, for from the strange land a whirl- 
wind rose, and struck the fore part of the vessel. 
Three times it made her whirl with aU the vv^aters, 
the fourth it made her stern lift up, and the prow 
go down, as pleased Another, till the sea had closed 
over us. 

It will be seen that Tennyson's conception of 
Ulysses is precisely the same as is Dante's in 
this passage. It is true Dante places Ulysses 
among the "evil counsellors" in the eighth pit 
of the eighth circle of Hell, but no hint of that 
appears in this passage. This is not the place 
to discuss the discrepancies between Homer's 
account and Dante's, but it may be noted that 
the death of Ulysses at sea is not one of 
them, as some commentators have said, for 
Tiresias explicitly tells Odysseus, Odyssey, xi, 
136 ff.: — 

"And from the sea shall thine own death come, 
the gentlest death that may be." Dante's notion 
that Ulysses sailed into the unknown west was 
apparently suggested by certain traditions con- 
necting him with Scotland and Lisbon, according 
to Grion in II Propugnatore, III, la, pp. 67-72. 
The main difference between Dante's account 
and Tennyson's is that in the former Ulysses sets 
out from Circe's island, while in the latter he sets 
out from Ithaca. In both, he and his com- 
panions are old. In both, the companions are 
apparently men who were with him at Troy and 
on the homeward journey, though, according to 
Homer, all these had perished. 



Tennyson's poem is full of reminiscences of the 
classics, as is quite natural. 

Every lover of poetry should note the fine 
apphcation of 11. 51-53, and 62-70 in the last page 
of Huxley's eloquent "Romanes Lecture" on 
Evolutioti and Ethics, and read what he has to 
say about Tennyson and Browning in the appended 
note. 

LocKSLEY Hall 

As poetry, this does not rank with Tennyson's 
best productions, but its mood of mingled melan- 
choly and optimism hit the taste of. the time when 
it was written (1842) and it has ever since been a 
favorite with youths who feel that the world is 
out of joint and at the same time cannot resist 
the strong tide of vital impulses. 

The poem is not autobiographical but dramatic. 
It was suggested by an Arabian poem, translated 
by Sir William Jones, the great oriental scholar. 
Perhaps the most interesting lines of the poem to 
the present-day reader are the prophecies of social 
and scientific progress, U. 1 17-138. 

P. 535. Lines 135-136 shadow forth the slow 
attack of democracy upon ancient privilege and 
authority. 

P. 536. U. 181-182. Tennyson explained that 
when he first rode on a railway train he thought 
that the wheels ran in grooved rails. 

St. Agnes' Eve 

P. 537. In a letter to Spedding in 1834 Tenny- 
son says: "I daresay you are right about the 
stanza in Sir Galahad, who was intended as a male 
counterpart to St. Agnes." This seems to indicate 
that in the poem bearing her name St. Agnes is the 
speaker, and not, as the poem suggests, some 
unknown nun. St. Agnes' eve is January 20. 
It was threatened by her persecutors that she 
should be debauched in the public stews before 
her execution, but in answer to her prayers she 
was miraculously preserved from this fate by 
lightning. Eight days later at her tomb her par- 
ents saw her in a vision among a troop of angels. 

This poem expresses her religious aspiration, 
which in stanza 3 becomes ecstatic mystical 
vision. This is the point Tennyson refers to when 
he speaks of Sir Galahad as the male counter- 
part of St. Agnes. The lines especiall}'' note- 
worthy in this respect in Sir Galahad are 25-48, 
63-80. Such mystical ecstasy as finds expression 
in these two poems is common in the experience 
of mystics. Mystical vision is often preceded by 
other phenomena. Richard Rolle (see Horstman's 



NOTES 



769 



Works of R. Rolle, Vol. I), the greatest of mediseval 
English mystics, felt first a delightful warmth in 
his bosom, then tasted delicious food and heard 
heavenly music. Similar experiences are related 
of St. Catherine of Sienna and many others. 

The tendency to fall into a mystic trance in 
which the external world seems unreal is char- 
acteristic of certain temperaments (see note on 
Wordsworth's Ot?e on Intimations of Immortality , 11. 
141 ff.). Tennj-son saj's of himself: "A kind of 
waking trance I have frequently had, quite up 
from boyhood, when I have been all alone. This 
has generally come upon me thro' repeating my own 
name two or three times to myself silently, till all at 
once, as it were out of the intensity of the conscious- 
ness of individuality, the individuality itself seemed 
' to dissolve and fade away into boundless being, 
and this not a confused state, but the clearest 
of the clearest, the surest of the surest, the weirdest 
of the weirdest, utterly beyond words, where 
death was an almost laughable impossibility, the 
loss of personality (if so it were) seeming no 
extinction but the only true life." Note in this 
connection the weird seizures of the Prince, added 
to The Princess in 1851. 

Sir Galahad 

In mediaeval romance the stories of the Holy 
Grail and the quest for it vary greatly. Tenny- 
son follows Malory (Bks. XI, XIII, XVII), in 
making Sir Galahad the knight of the Grail and 
the Grail itself the sacred vessel containing some 
of the blood of Christ. 

See note on St. Agnes' Eve. 



In Memoriam 

Pp. 540 ff. In Memoriam is a series of elegiac 
poems, written between 1833 and 1850 and ex- 
pressing various phases of Tennyson's grief at the 
loss of Arthur Hallam, his most intimate friend in 
boyhood and youth. No doubt the grief becomes 
monotonous to the reader if he undertakes to read 
the whole series at a sitting, but the themes — the 
aspects of grief — are many and varied, and it is 
to be borne in mind that they are a record of many 
years of permanent consciousness of loss. They 
contain some of Tennyson's sincerest and best 
work and have found responsive echoes in many 
bereaved hearts. 

The Proem, written in 1849, is Tennyson's sum- 
mar>' of his attitude toward the mystery of be- 
reavement. 



Cantos I and XXVII are closely connected in 
thought and feeling. 

Cantos XXXI and XXXII form almost a sin- 
gle poem on a single theme. 

Canto LIV is the last of a series in which the 
poet discusses the carelessness and waste of 
Nature as revealed especially in the geological 
records, which show that not only individuals 
but whole species have perished : in this canto he 
takes refuge in a vague hope and trust. 

Merlin and the Gleam 

Pp. 543 ff. Tennyson said: "In the story of 
Merlin and Nimue I have read that Nimue means 
the Gleam — which signifies the higher poetic 
imagination." His career as a poet is expressed 
in the symbols of the successive stanzas. 

Crossing the Bar 

P. 545. Written in Tennyson's eighty-first 
year. He instructed his son to put this at the end 
of all editions of his poems. 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

Sonnets erom the Portuguese 

Pp. 545 ff. These sonnets are not translations, 
as the title implies, but record the courtship of the 
Brownings. The title was adopted to disguise 
their intimate personal tone. Sonnets I and VII 
allude to the unhappy conditions of Mrs. Brown- 
ing's life before her marriage. For years she had 
been an invalid, and her father's jealousy of her 
friends added to her distress. Her marriage with 
Browning transported her to a finer, freer life and 
was followed by many years of improved health. 
Browning's response to the Sonnets may be in- 
ferred from One Word More (pp. 564 ff.) and from 
his beautiful tribute in The Ring and the Book 
beginning : 

" O lyric Love, half angel and half bird 
And all a wonder and a wild desire, — 
Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, 
Took sanctuarj' within the holier blue. 
And sang a kindred soul out to his face, — 
Yet human at the ripe red of the heart." 

The passage in Theocritus here alluded to (I, i) 
is in the "Psalm of Adonis" in /(/y/ ZF, 11. 104 f.: 
"Tardiest of the Immortals are the beloved Hours, 
but dear and desired they come, for always, to all 



770 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



mortals, they bring some gift with them." An- 
other notable poem suggested by the Theocritan 
Unes is Emerson's Days : 

" Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, 
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, 
And marching single in an endless file. 
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. 
To each they offer gifts after his wiU, 
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them 

aU. 
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, 
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily 
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day 
Turned and departed silent. I, too late, 
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. 

The Cry of the Children 

Pp. 547 fif. In the middle of the nineteenth 
century the conditions of industrial workers in 
England were as bad as they still are in many parts 
of the United States. There were no laws regu- 
lating the employment of women and children, 
and child-labor was extensively exploited by manu- 
facturers in all lines of industry. This poem was 
suggested by a report on factory conditions written 
by Richard Hengist Home, a friend who was him- 
self a poet of real though intermittent genius. 

ROBERT BROWNING 

Cavalier Tunes 

Pp. 549 f. These songs are intended to express 
the feelings and opinions of the adherents of 
King Charles I in the Parliamentary War; they 
are supposed to be sung by them. 

"How They Brought the Good News 
FROM Ghent to Aix" 

Pp. 550 f. Browning said: "There is no sort 
of historical foundation about Good News from 
Ghent. I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel 
off the African coast, after I had been at sea long 
enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on 
the back of a certain good horse 'York,' then in 
my stable at home." But the imaginary object 
of this imaginary ride was apparently, in Brown- 
ing's intention, the conveyance of the news of the 
"Pacification de Gant," a treaty of union of Hol- 
land, Zealand, and the southern Netherlands 
against Spain. As this was concluded in 1576, 
the date 16 — at the head of the poem is perhaps 



due to a failure of memory, just as some of the 
towns mentioned as lying on the route between 
Ghent and Aix are really not on the shortest and 
best route. The ride can easily be traced on the 
map ; the distance is somewhat more than ninety 
miles. 

Saul 

Pp. 552 ff. These two consecutive cantos from 
Saul give David's discussion of the power and love 
of God, ending in the prophetic vision of the God- 
Man, Christ. He has examined the works of God 
carefully and discovers in them evidences of law, 
wisdom, love, the will and the power to redeem 
mankind. 

My Last Duchess 

Pp. 554 f . This dramatic monologue is one of 
Browning's most successful efforts in this form of 
poetry. 

The Duke of Ferrara is supposed to be talking 
with an ambassador who has been sent by an un- 
named Count to discuss with him a proposition 
of marriage with the Count's daughter. When 
the poem opens, they are returning from the place 
of discussion to the company awaiting them (cf. 
11. 47-48), and the Duke, as if bj^ mere chance, 
calls attention to a picture, and explains, as coolly 
as if he had no personal concern in the matter, that 
this is the picture of his last Duchess, whose 
"smiles" he had ordered "stopped," because she 
had a heart "too soon made glad" and had 
wounded his pride by setting no higher value upon 
what he gave her than upon the trifling gifts of 
others. He puts her oft'ence purely as one against 
taste and family pride. The object of the conver- 
sation is, of course, to let the ambassador under- 
stand what his next Duchess may expect if she 
fails to rate highly enough the honor of being his 
wife. 

Fra Pandolf and Claus of Innsbruck are names 
invented by the poet. 

A Grammarian's Funeral 

Pp. 555 f . At the revival of classical learning in 
Europe the revelation of the rich and highly de- 
veloped life and literatures of ancient Greece and 
Rome affected many men like the discovery of a 
new world. Some, like Erasmus (see Green's 
Slwrt History of the English People) and the Gram- 
marian of Browning's poem (see J. A. Symonds, 
The Revival of Learning, or J. Burkhardt, The Civil- 
ization of the Renaissance, Pt. Ill), were ready to 
make all sorts of sacrifices, even to going without 



NOTES 



771 



sufScient food, in order to devote their lives to 
these fascinating studies. The Grammarian is at 
heart an idealist and a poet, bewildered by this 
wonderful new world, and so entangled in the pre- 
liminaries to acquiring and applying the new ideals 
of life that he dies before he has completed his 
preparations for hving. His enthusiasm and ideal- 
ism he has communicated to his pupils, and a com- 
panjr of them bear his body on their shoulders to its 
last resting place. One of them is the speaker in 
the poem. He discusses the ideals and aims of 
his master and asserts that his life was not a failure, 
but a triumph. This is a favorite theme with 
Browning (cf. Abi Vogler (p. 567), Apparent Fail- 
ure, and many other passages). 

The poem is not difficult if the reader remem- 
bers that here, as in many other poems, Browning's 
speaker uses the rapid changes of tone and syntac- 
tical structure of conversation. This makes it 
necessarj' to watch the punctuation closelj', as it 
is intended to hint at the tone and voice inflection. 
Note especially the parentheses and quotations. 

1. 95. Hydroptic means "afflicted with such a 
thirst that the more one drinks the more he thirsts." 

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower 

Came" 

Pp. 556 ff. Many have insisted upon regarding 
this poem as an allegory and have tried to find the 
allegorical meaning of each detail. Browning 
declared it was not so intended, but was a dramatic 
poem suggested by the words of the title. He ad- 
mitted, however, that it might be regarded as hav- 
ing a symbolic significance suggesting faithfulness 
to any high moral quest in spite of the failure or 
desertion or treachery of companions, the inter- 
ference of obstacles and dangers of all sorts, and 
the uncertainty of the final outcome. It seems 
also safe to recognize in 11. 175 ff. a suggestion" of 
the sort of moral crisis that is not known as such 
until one is brought suddenly and unescapably 
into it, and when courage — even if only the 
courage with which a brave soul fronts the in- 
evitable — is the only safe counselor. The right 
way to" read the poem is to attend consciously 
only to its plain dramatic meaning; it will in- 
evitably suggest to the emotions all the symbolic 
significance it has. 

P. 567. 1. 12. Notice that there is only a 
comma at the end of this line; the sentence goes 
on. Notice also 11. 30, 132. Notice further that 
the "No" of 1. 61 is very closely connected with 
U. 58-60. 

P. 568. 1. 80. CoUoped usually means Ijing 



in folds of fat, but here it is used of the folds or 
ridges of the horse's gaunt, withered neck. 

P. 559. 1. 192. This line, though in quotation 
marks, is not spoken, but represents the supposed 
attitude of the hills, watching to see the adversary 
slay Childe Roland. 

1. 203. Browning's fancy was sometimes cap- 
tured by an old or odd word, and he used it with- 
out knowing exactly what it meant. Slug-horn 
is due to a misunderstanding of an old spelling 
of the word slogan. Browning seems to have got 
it from Chatterton, who uses it several times ; cf. 
Skeat's ed., U, pp. 42, 64, 125, 129, 132, 199, and 
especially 162 : 

"Some caught a slug-horn, and an onset wound," 
(Batlle of Hastings II, xi,) 

Fra Lippo Lippi 

"Poor brother Lippo" {i.e., Fiiippo) was in 
reality a great Florentine painter of the Quattro- 
cento (fifteenth century), whose character and 
career are very accurately given in this poem. 
He was born in 1406, according to Berenson, and 
died in 1469. His teacher was Lorenzo Monaco, 
the Brother Lorenzo of 1. 236, but he owes much 
more to Masaccio (= Hulking Tom (1. 277), the 
nickname of Tommaso Guidi), five years his senior, 
whom Browning mistakenly makes his pupil. He 
was also somewhat influenced by Fra Angelico 
(1387-1455), who is mentioned in 1. 235. Lippo's 
comments on Giotto in the poem are, of course, 
unfair, and were intended by Browning to be so. 

The cloister of the Carmine (1. 7) was then out- 
side the city, a httle south and west of the Ponte 
alia Carraia. When the poem opens, Fra Lij^po 
is at work for Cosimo de' Medici in what is now 
the Palazzo Riccardi. As this palace was built 
in 1430 and Fra Lippo seems to be engaged in 
decorating the walls, the imaginarj' date of the 
poem is apparently before Fra Lippo left the 
cloister in 1432, as, indeed, 1. 7 seems to indicate. 

The other places mentioned are in or near 
Florence. The church of San Lorenzo (St. 
Laurence, I. 67) is less than a hundred yards from 
"the house that caps the corner" (1. 18). The 
convent of the Preaching Friars (1. 140), or Domini- 
cans, better known as that of San Marco, is a few 
hundred yards north of San Lorertzo ; Camaldoli, 
the seat of the Camaldolcsc monks (1. 139), lies 
about twenty miles east, while Pralo (1. 324) is 
twelve miles northwest. 

For the facts of Fra Lippo's career Browning 
relied upon the latest edition of Vasari's Lives of 



772 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



the Painters (G. Vasari, Delle Vite de' piu Eccellenti 
Pittori, etc.), which misled him in regard to Ma- 
saccio. The snatches of song in the poem are said 
to be modeled on the type of folk song called 
stornello (pi. stornelli), though they do not con- 
form to the examples I have seen. The picture 
conceived for Sant' Ambrogio's church (11. 346 ff.) 
is the Coronation of the Virgin, now in the Acca- 
demia delle Belle Arti. The words Iste perfecit 
opus (1. 377, "This one painted the picture") are 
on a scroll pointing towards the figure of the monk. 
The information just given may satisfy some 
natural curiosity about certain details. The poem 
itself, however, can be understood without this 
introduction; it, indeed, contains all the ele- 
ments necessary to its interpretation as a poem. 
Browning has two objects in the poem : (i) to give 
a vivid dramatic presentation of the psychology 
of this type of artist and the conditions of his life 
in fifteenth century Italy; (2) to use him as a 
mouthpiece for some interesting and important 
views about realistic art. 

One Word More 

Pp. 564 ff. This poem was, as 11. 1-2 indicate, 
the final poem of the volum.es entitled Men and 
Women (2 vols., 1855). It is a tribute to the poet's 
wife, as clear and simple as it is beautiful. Its 
general theme is stated in U. 96-99 and 184-186. 

Notes on a few details may be interesting : — 

1. 5. Nothing is known of Rafael's (1483-1520) 
century of sonnets; according to Browning it dis- 
appeared while in the hands of Guido Reni (b. 
1575, d. 1642). 

1. 10. Who that one? Rafael's lady was Mar- 
gareta (la Fornarina), whose likeness appears in 
many of his pictures. 

P. 565. 1. 32. Dante's account of his begin- 
ning to draw an angel on the completion of Bea- 
trice's first year "in the life eternal" is given in 
The New Life {La Vita Nuova), section xxxv (see 
Professor Norton's translation, pp. 74 ff., and his 
note on p. 163). 

1. 46. Browning called one of his own works 
Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in 
Their Day (pub. 1887). 

1. 57. Bice (pronounced "Bee'che") is a love- 
form of Beatrice. 

P. 566. 1. 148. Fiesole, cf. notes on Lander's 
A Fiesolan Idyl. 

1. 150. Samminiato, a popular form of San 
Miniato, a small mountain southwest of Florence, 
famous for its scenery and its church. 

P. 567. 11. 163-165. Zoroaster and Galileo are 



named as types of those who studied the moon as 
scientists; Homer and Keats as poets who wrote 
about it. Galileo's discovery of the mountains 
in the moon was one of the most famous results of 
the use of the telescope. Keats's Endytnion is the 
most notable version of the well-known myth of 
the loves of Endymion and the moon goddess. 

Abt Vogler 

Georg Joseph Vogler (b. 1749 at Wiirzburg, d. 
1814 at Darmstadt) was the son of a violin maker 
and was early devoted to the career of musician. 
He studied in Germany and Italy and taught and 
directed in Germany and Sweden. While in 
Rome he entered the priesthood and was appointed 
Apostolic Protonotary and Chamberlain. He was 
court chaplain and master of the chapel at Mann- 
heim and Stockholm, and established schools 
of music at both places. He composed a great 
deal of music, but his principal interest for us is in 
his career as virtuoso. Having made a good many 
simplifications in the pipe organ, which resulted in 
a portable organ about nine feet in height, depth, 
and breadth, nam_ed by him an "orchestrion," he 
visited Denmark, Holland, and England with it 
and gave organ recitals with much success. This 
is the instrument upon which he has been improvis- 
ing when Browning's poem opens (cf. 1. 2). 
■ The central ideas of the poem are expressed in 
11. 69-82. 

The musician has just built up with his playing 
a beautiful structure of music, as wonderful both 
in result and in mode of accomplishment as the 
legendary palace built by Solomon for the princess 
he loved. He reflects upon these resemblances 
(11. 1-40) , expressing first the wish (1. 9) that this 
palace of music might be permanent, not doomed 
to perish as the notes of the improvisation die 
away. Then (11. 41-56) he contrasts the rational, 
intelligible processes of other arts — painting, 
poetry, etc. — with the mysterious and divine 
creative processes of music. Then he returns to 
the question whether music — • even improvised 
music — does really perish when the tones cease 
here on earth, and he finds in his soul's demand 
for personal immortality (11. 63-64) the assurance 
that music, and all that is good and beautiful, 
must exist eternally in and through the power and 
love of the Ineffable Name ; and finds in the neces- 
sity for the completion of the incomplete and the 
final success of apparent earthly failure triumphant 
"evidence for the fulness of the days" (11. 65-82), 
the reality of eternity. And conformably'' to what 
is said of the nearness of God to the musician in 11. 



NOTES 



773 



49-56, he declares in 11. 81-88 the divine revelation 
of these truths to musicians. 

The rest of the poem is a real, and at the same 
time symbolic, return from these exalted thoughts 
and feelings through the emotional effects of music 
to the plane and the duties of common human life. 

1. 3. Legends of Solomon's skill in magic arose 
very early out of what the Bible says of his wis- 
dom. The Talmudists inferred from the simple 
Biblical statement that no sound of a hammer was 
heard in the building of the Temple, that he must 
have used supernatural means, and they devised a 
story of a wonderful animal that cut stone and 
glass and iron, discovered by Solomon by means of 
his knowledge of the language of birds (see S. 
Baring-Gould's Myths of the Middle Ages and 
Legends of the Patriarchs and Prophets). Later 
legends, hinted at in the Koran, put him in control 
of armies of angels and demons, able to execute 
every command. 

1. 5. The demons had or assumed all shapes. 

1. 7. The belief that the real name of God was 
unspeakable goes back to ancient Hebrew times — 
or at least to a time earlier than the Septuagint 
version of the Old Testament; see any good 
encyclopfedia under Jehovah or Jahveh. 

P. 568. 1.18. If cre^/ here means anything more 
than "head" or "creature," it is used to imply the 
different natures or groups represented by different 
crests or cognizances. 

1. 22. The lighting of the lamps around St. 
Peter's dome (1. 23) used, it is said, to be one of the 
great sights of Rome on festal occasions. 

1. 34. Protoplast is usually taken here to mean 
"model" or "mold." It seems rather to mean 
"creator," "first maker," as in Browning's other 
use of it in Fifine, cxxiv. 

1. 42. visibly, as if he had really seen the 
structure of music. 

1. 51. this = the art of music. 

P. 569. 11. 91-96. The symbolism of this 
passage is clear. The efforts of commentators to 
indicate the succession of chords are not entirely 
satisfactory. In 1. 91 the common chord seems to 
mean the basal chord of the tonality in which he 
had been improvising, for he would hardly have 
begun his descent to the C Major of this life from 
any other tonality. That this was not itself C 
Major, as some suppose, is probable ; for what 
reason would there then be for sliding into the 
minor and the ninth before finding the resting place 
.in C Major? What seems clear is that, beginning 
on the heights of feeling induced by his improvisa- 
tion, the musician resumes the tonality in which 
he was improvising and, modulating by semi-tones, 

All 



slips into the minor, which characteristically 
arouses emotions of unrest, incompleteness, and 
longing; but he resolutely blunts this with the 
inharmonic ninth, and then resolves this into 
C Major — the tonality of common human life. 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 

Rabbi Ben Ezra, or Ibn Ezra, was born in Spain 
about 1090. He travelled in Africa, the Holy 
Land, Persia, India, Italy, France, and England, 
and was a scholar and a poet. Some of the ideas 
which Browning here puts into his mouth were 
really expressed by him in his poems and his com- 
mentaries on the Bible. 



The Epilogue to Asolando 

Pp. 572 f. The volume of which this little 
poem is the epilogue was published the day of 
Browning's death, December 12, 1889. It con- 
templates his own death and the feelings which 
his friends will have about it, and rejects their 
imagined pity, declaring that as on earth he was 
one who never feared or doubted, so after death 
he will continue his career, asking onty that his 
friends cheer him though, unseen and speed him 
onward. Note the contrast between midnight 
(I. i) and noonday (1. 16). 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 

Pp. 573 flf. A t>'pical John Bull among writers, 
Thackeray is nowhere more Bull-ish than in deahng 
with his fellow-humorist. The key to all that he has 
to say about Sterne is found in the last sentence of 
the selection ; his mid- Victorian sense of what is 
due the conventions will not permit him to discuss 
Sterne without saying that he prefers Dickens for 
his children. This personal bias, on moral, not 
literary, grounds, pervades his presentation of the 
character. His study is not unsympathetic — 
far from it; it is appreciative, even kindly, but it 
never for a moment abandons the position of a 
paterfamilias in a frock-coat. He is scandalized 
— and, one may admit, not without reason ; all 
the more scandalized because Sterne was a clergy- 
man. Compare his studj^ with Stevenson's treat- 
ment of Villon, pp. 662 ff. 

The essay quoted is a good example of Thack- 
eray's vigorous and genial English, his bluffness 
suffused with sentiment, his happy faculty of 
choosing the material that will give to his presen- 
tation vitality and charm. 



774 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 

Pp. 578 ff. Clough perhaps gave fuller and sin- 
cerer expression than any other poet to the reli- 
gious doubt and unrest characteristic of the middle 
of the nineteenth century. Others — even at their 
sincerest — give us only the conclusions they have 
reached and such steps in the progress of their 
thought as they think profitable for us; Clough 
allows us to be with him in all his falterings, his 
waverings, his inconsistencies. In Easter Day, 
we have, to be sure, first the doubts and then the 
faith, but in The Questioning Spirit and its sequel, 
Bethesda, the moods are reversed. In this sin- 
cerity lies his great value. He was a poetic thinker 
but only too seldom a poetic artist. This may 
have been due in part to his sincerity — his record- 
ing at the moment the thoughts of the moment. 
"AU immortal verse," says WiUiam Sharp, "is a 
poetic resurrection," and he quotes Schiller as 
saying that " to live again in the serene beauty of 
art, it is needful that thirds should first die in 
reality." 

Qua Cursum Ventus 

The title is a phrase from Vergil's Mneid, III, 
269, and means "whithersoever the wind directs 
the course." The situation in the Mneid bears 
no resemblance to that set forth in this poem. 
There ^neas, in relating his adventures, tells how 
he left the islands called the Strophades; "The 
winds," he says, "spread wide our sails; over the 
foaming waves we flee, whither the wind and the 
helmsman direct our course : " — 

Tendunt vela Noti ; fugimus spumantibus undis, 
Qua. cursum ventusque gubernatorque vocabat. 

Our poem presents, under the figure of two ships 
that sail away into the night and are unintention- 
ally separated, the common experience of friends 
who unintentionally and unwittingly drift apart in 
thought and feeling. 



JOHN RUSKIN 
The Stones of Venice 

Pp. 582 ff. Ruskin was a -combination of types 
rarel}^ combined — an artist and a reformer. 
Fundamentally, he was an artist ; but as he was 
not content to observe and study and love the 
beautiful things that exist, but wished to see all 
the world beautiful, he inevitably joined the ranks 
of those who strive to hasten by human and arti- 



ficial means the golden age when all hateful and 
hideous things shaU be unknown. 

Himself trained as a painter, Ruskin used words 
as he used pigments, to build up a composition 
that would convey an impression of objectivity 
colored by personality, very much as a painting 
of the same subject would do. For this reason his 
description of St. Mark's is one of the most wonder- 
ful pieces of word-painting ever produced. As 
he is writing for English readers to whom the 
word cathedral is rich in associations ■ — and 
associations altogether foreign to the scene he is 
about to describe — he prepares the way by sum- 
ming up the characteristic features of an English 
cathedral. Having set forth and banished these, 
he feels still that the reader's mind is not sufii- 
ciently ready to receive emotionally the impres- 
sion of a church so unlike any other, and he pre- 
pares the way further by a long description of the 
incongruous scenes crowded into the paved alley 
leading to the piazza. And when expectation 
can bear no more, " we forget them all, for between 
those pillars there opens a great light. . . ." 

Observe that the description of the cathedral 
itself fills only half a page, while almost as much 
space is devoted to contrasting it with the people 
who live round about it, and three times as much 
space is given to preparing for the description. 
But the word-picture, short as it is, is as vividly 
colored as any piece of English prose; it gives a 
clear impression of the general appearance of the 
church, and of its structure from the ground to the 
spires, and it bathes the whole scene in an atmos- 
phere of suggestion by m»eans of the words used, 
much as a painter gets atmospheric effects by com- 
binations of color. 

The Crown of Wild Olive 

Pp. 584 ff. The selection from The Crown of 
Wild Olive, though it contains less wonderful de- 
scriptive writing, is quite as beautiful in its way, 
and fully as characteristic of Ruskin. It shows the 
strength of his bitter hostility to the economic 
waste that produced notliing but ugliness for the 
expenditure of labor. It reveals the artist as an 
economist, a socialist, a lover of his fellow-men, and 
a wanderer in lonely paths of thought; and it 
contains a doctrine that he was eager to impress 
upon the hearts of his readers. The value of 
Ruskin's work grows with the growing recognition 
of political economy as the science, not of wealth, 4 
but of social well-being. 

The meaning of the title is explained in the last 
paragraph of the selection. 



NOTES 



775 



FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 

P. 590. Praed (p. 494) and Locker-Lampson 
are the advance guard of a host of writers of vers de 
socictc of exquisite delicacy and refinement. The 
ideal of such verse is elegant and ingenious trifling 
with only occasional touches of more serious senti- 
ment — as a swallow circles* bright and swift 
through the air, dips its wing for a moment in the 
water, and like a flash is off again in its careless 
flight. Some of the lighter verse of the sixteenth, 
seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries bears a close 
resemblance to the work of these later writers, 
but there is a difference in tone, in attitude, in 
personal concern with the sentiments expressed. 
Locker (or Locker-Lampson, to use the name he 
assumed upon his marriage to Miss Lampson) 
was far superior to Praed in tenderness, in resen^e, 
in genuine poetic feeling, and in technique. His 
range of sentiments, of ideas, and of rhythms was 
greater ; and he has had the greater influence upon 
later writers. With the lines To My Grand- 
mother a curious analogy and contrast are afforded 
by Oliver Wendell Holmes's The Last Leaf. 

SIDNEY DOBELL 

P. 591. Sidney Dobell is a notable example 
of the rather large class of poets in the nineteenth 
centur}' who gave evidence of true and even great 
poetic ability, but who failed in unity, in sus- 
tained power, in final and perfect utterance. 



are steadily gaining wider recognition. It now 
seems probable that he and Browning will in the 
future be counted the most notable poets of the 
Victorian period. 

The Scholar Gipsy 

Pp. 617 ff. In a note, Arnold gave the follow- 
ing passage from Glanvil's Vanity of Dogmatiz- 
ing (1661) as the foimdation of this poem : — 

"There was lately a lad in the University of 
Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave 
his studies there ; and at last to join himself to a 
company of vagabond gipsies. Among these ex- 
travagant people, by the insinuating subtility of 
his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love 
and esteem as that they discovered to him their 
m3'stery. After he had been a pretty while exer- 
cised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple 
of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaint- 
ance. They quickly spied out their old friend 
among the gipsies ; and he gave them an account 
of the necessity which drove him to that kind of 
life, and told them that the people he went with 
were not such impostors as they were taken for, 
but that they had a traditional kind of learning 
among them, and could do wonders by the power 
of imagination, their fancy binding that of others : 
that he himself had learned much of their art, and 
when he had compassed the whole secret, he in- 
tended, he said, to leave their company, and give 
the world an account of what he had learned." 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 

Neither as poet nor as prose-writer did Arnold 
catch the ear of the great public, but in both 
characters he v/as eminent in his generation as 
one who taught and guided the teachers and 
guides of the educated world. 

His prose is clear, vivacious, classical in its re- 
straint and its definiteness of aim, and tliough 
often careless, its carelessness has always the 
effect of elegant negligence, not of slipshod igno- 
rance. The importance of the ideas for which 
he contended and the unwavering and urbane 
persistence with which he supjwrted a cause that 
could triumph only in the remote future are 
among the most admirable of his many admirable 
quahties. 

His verse is more restrained than his prose and it 
lacks the lightheartedness, the spontaneity, the 
outward and obvious signs of power necessary for 
popuhirity. In his own day it found only a small 
band of lovers, but its permanent beauty and value 



EDWARD FITZGERALD 
The Rubaiyat of Oivla-r Khayyam 

Pp. 621 11. Fitzgerald's translation of The 
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam has long had a place 
in the hearts of lovers of high and serious poetry. 
Although a translation, it is in the truest sense an 
original poem and expresses as scarcely any other 
does the strange combination of doubt and defi- 
ance and sensuousness and religious yearning 
characteristic of much of the thought and feeling 
of the Victorian Age. 

Rubdiydt is a Persian word, the plural of rubai, 
which means a quatrain. Omar, surnamed Al 
Khayyam (the tent-maker), was a distinguished 
Persian scholar and poet. He was regarded as a 
paragon of learning, especially in astronomy. In 
one of his quatrains he refers whimsically to his 
surname and in another to his reformation of the 
calendar. His quatrains circulated very widelj' 
iu the Orient and produced many imitations — 



776 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



some of which are indistinguishable from his own. 
He was born at Naishapur in the second half of 
the eleventh century and died there in the first 
half of the twelfth. One of his school-fellows was 
the famous statesman Nizam-ul-Mulk, and an- 
other the infamous Hasan ben Sabbah, the Old 
Man of the Mountains, from whose name the word 
assassin is said by some to be derived. 

COVENTRY PATMORE 

Pp. 623 f. Coventr}^ Patmore has been the sub- 
ject of the most widely divergent judgments. One 
contemporary critic says: "It may be affirmed 
that no poet of the present age is more certain of 
immortality than he." Another regards him as 
possessing no spark of the divine fire. The selec- 
tions here presented seem to justify his claim to a 
unique and high position among the poets of his 
time, but his range was narrow — his vocal register 
had scarcely a tone that does not find utterance in 
these selections — and his voice obviously lacked 
resonance and power. Being incapable of self- 
criticism, he wrote much that is prosaic — some 
lines that even awaken inextinguishable laughter ; 
but at its best his verse is simple, picturesque, pas- 
sionate, of exquisite freshness and charm. 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

Pp. 624 flf. The vigor and intensity of Rossetti's 
thought is often lost sight of in consequence of the 
luxuriance and sensuous richness of his imagery 
and melody. But his poems are not involuntary 
cries of passion ; they are planned and constructed 
with serious artistic care and wrought out with 
infinite attention to details. Of The Blessed 
Damozel, he said: "I saw that Poe had done the 
utmost it was possible to do with the grief of the 
lover on earth, and so I determined to reverse the 
conditions, and give utterance to the yearning of 
the loved one in heaven." It would be difficult 
to find two more impressive examples of logical 
structure and development than are afforded by 
this poem and Sister Helen. 

The intellectual power of his verse may be seen 
also in the sonnets On the Refusal of Aid between 
Nations, The Sonnet, The Landmark, The Choice, 
Vain Virtues — indeed in practically every 
selection, for even the love-sonnets are as closely 
reasoned as if they were treatises instead of lyrics. 

Sister Helen 

Pp. 626 £E. The superstition that an enemy's 
life could be destroyed by making a figure of him 



in wax and melting it before a slow fire — the whole 
process, of course, to be carried out with proper 
ceremonies of black magic — is a very ancient and 
almost world-wide belief. The most interesting 
variants of the belief, in classical literature, are 
perhaps those in the second Idyl of Theocritus. 
The whole Idyl is interesting to read in connection 
with this poem, though the heroine Simaetha is 
attempting, not to destroy her lover, but to bring 
back his love; cf. especially the following (11. 23- 

31): — 

"Delphis troubled me, and I against Delphis am 
burning this laurel ; and even as it crackles loudly 
when it has caught the flame, and suddenly is 
burned up, and we see not even the dust thereof, lo, 
even thus may the flesh of Delphis waste in the 
burning ! 

^^My magic wheel, draw home to me the man I 
love ! 

"Even as I melt this wax, with the god to aid, 
so speedily may he by love be molten, the Myn- 
dian Delphis ! And as whirls this brazen wheel, 
so restless, under Aphrodite's speU, may he turn 
and turn about my doors ! 

"My magic wheel, draw home to me th& man I 
love I" 

Instances of the superstition in England and 
Ireland are discussed in Thomas Wright's intro- 
duction to The Proceedings against Dame Alice 
Kyteler (Camden Society Publications). 

The Ballad of Dead Ladies 

P. 629. 1. 2. Lady Flora. The Roman god- 
dess of flowers, or more probabl}^ the Roman lady 
mentioned by Juvenal, Sat. II, 49. 

1.3. Hipparchia. Villon has ^rc/iz/'JaJa, which 
is probably a distortion of A Icibiades. The beauty 
of Alcibiades was proverbial, and Villon may have 
thought he was a woman. Modern editors have 
substituted the name Hipparchia, but the name 
of this learned Greek lady of the fourth century 
B.C. was probably unknown to Villon. For Thais 
see Alexander's Feast, p. 224, 1. 9. 

1. 5. Echo, the mythical sweetheart of Narcis- 
sus, cf. Gayley's Classic Myths, p. 206. 

1. 9. Hclo'ise, cf. Pope's Elo'isa to Abelard and 
the notes on it. 

1. 13. The Queen who willed that Buridan 
should be thrown into the Seine was, according to 
legend. Marguerite of Bourgoyne, queen of Louis X. 

1. 17. Queen Blanche is probably Blanche of 
Castile, mother of Louis IX of France (St. Louis) : 
she died a nun in 1252. 

1. 19. Bertha Broadfoot, according to tradition 



NOTES 



777 



the mother of Charlemagne, heroine of the old 
French romance Berte aux Gratis Pies. Beatrice, 
apparently Beatrice of Provence, wife of Charles, 
son of Louis VIII. Alice, perhaps the wife of 
Louis VII ; but many old French songs begin 
"Belle Aalis" {i.e.. Beautiful Alice). 

1. 20. Ermengarde married the famous warrior 
Foulques d'-A-njou in 1004. 

1. 21. Joan, Jeanne d'Arc. 



The Earthly Paradise 

The Earthly Paradise was written under the in- 
fluence of Chaucer (cf. Morris's Prologue, 11. 1-16) 
and, like the Canterbury Talcs, is a collection of 
stories told by the members of a group of travel- 
ers. The Lady of the Lajid is a retelling of the 
story told briefly by Sir John MandeviUe in his 
fourth chapter (see pp. 30 ff^. 



France sc A da Rimini 

As Dante, in the Inferno, passed among those 
whom guilty love had sent to hell, he entreated 
two to come and speak to him. They were the 
famous lovers Paolo and Francesca, and this 
passage is a part of Francesca's account of 
their love. She was given by her father in mar- 
riage to Giovanni Malatesta, a man of extraor- 
dinary courage and ability, but deformed. Un- 
fortunately she fell in love with his younger 
brother, Paolo, and he with her. They were killed 
by Giovanni. Few love stories have attracted 
more sympathetic interest. Leigh Hunt wrote a 
narrative poem on the story, and it has been dram- 
atized in English by G. H. Boker and by Stephen 
Phillips, and in Itahan by Silvio Pellico and by 
Gabriele D'Annun^io. Pictures illustrating the 
story have been painted by Ingres, Cabanel, Ary 
Scheffer, G. F. Watts, and others. 



WILLIAM MORRIS 

Pp. 633 ff. To no poet of the Victorian period 
could the term "the idle singer of an empty day" 
be less appropriately applied than to WiUiam 
Morris. He not only was a chief factor in revolu- 
tionizing the general artistic taste of the Enghsh 
people and their house-decorations in particular, 
but also became a leader in the social reforms which 
are tending surely though slowly to the reorganiza- 
tion of society and the state. Such a career may 
seem strange for one whose whole interest as a 
young man lay apparently in mediaeval romance 
and poetry; yet in reality the art-reformer and 
the social-reformer were logical and, one maj' al- 
most saj', inevitable developments of the lover of 
medievalism, for his love of mediaeval art taught 
him the hideousness of the work produced by 
modem artisans, and practical ex-perience as a 
decorator soon brought the recognition that art is 
not possible under the conditions of modern in- 
dustrialism, that beauty is the product of the free 
artist, working with a love of his art. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 

Pp. 640 ff . From his youth, almost from his boy- 
hood, Swinburne possessed a wealth of sensuously 
beautiful words and a facility in versification un- 
surpassed by any other English poet. Unfortu- 
nately both these gifts tempted him to verbos- 
ity. He always has a meaning but it is often 
obscured, if not entirely hidden, by the excess of 
words and the long and elaborate sentences in 
which it is expressed. His influence upon other 
English poets — both great and small — was for 
a time very notable : to the great he taught new 
lessons and presented new standards of melodious 
verse; to the small he worked injury, tempting 
them to produce sound without sense and to in- 
dulge in all sorts of hot-house malaise and eroticism. 
He himself grew steadily in power and seriousness 
of thought, but he never escaped from the in- 
voluted coils of his diction and his syntax. The 
republican poems written imder the influence of 
Victor Hugo and Mazzini cannot be quoted here, 
but they should be read by any one who wishes a 
just idea of his significance in Enghsh poetry. 

GEORGE MEREDITH 

Pp. 644 ff. George Meredith was one of the most 
richly and variously endowed writers of the nine- 
teenth century. He is best kno\\ii as a novehst, 
but to many of his admirers he seems equally great 
as a poet. All of his work is notable for its combi- 
nation of significance and beauty. In depth of 
insight, in subtle apprehension of life and of the 
problems which it presents to try the hearts of 
inteUigent men and women, even such great writers 
as Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot 
are hardly his equals; and his sensitiveness to 
the beauties of nature and of the soul of man has a 
wider range and a finer delicacy. The same quali- 
ties are manifest in much of his poetry. But the 
gods gave him also the fatal gift of excessive intel- 
lectual ingenuity and a delight in the e.xercise of 
it ; while the sole gift they denied him was self- 



778 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



restraint. Like his own Bellerophon, he had the 
winged horse and the golden bridle, and he, too, 

. . . could mount and sit 

Flying, and up Ol3anpus midway speed ; 

but instead of riding straight and hard for the 
summit he too often, in mere exuberance of power 
and of delight in his steed, executes difficult feats 
of horsemanship on the lower slopes of the moun- 
tain. 

Love in the Valley is not a logical, consecutive 
description of the beloved, but a series of ghmpses 
of her in many moods and under many aspects. 
The poem may be said to resemble in structure a 
diamond with a hundred facets, each of which glows 
with its own transformation of the white light of 
beauty. 

Pp. 648 f . Juggling Jerry affords a striking con- 
trast with this poem in both subject-matter and 
style. 

Pp. 649 f . Bellerophon is a remarkable imagina- 
tive reconstruction of a situation, the tragedy and 
pathos of which depend upon an appreciation of 
the career of the hero as set forth in classical my- 
thology. 

P. 650. The Song of the Songless and the Dirge 
give some hint of the beauty of the nature poetry 
v/hich forms a notable part of his work. Taken 
together these selections illustrate the range as 
well as the beauty of Meredith's poetry. 

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 

Pp. 650 ff. Christina Rossetti deserves a high, 
perhaps the highest, place among women poets 
of the nineteenth century, not by virtue of range of 
thought or volume of production, but because her 
verse is uniformly almost the perfection of simple 
passionate beauty. 

JAMES THOMSON 

Pp. 652 ff. James Thomson is one of the most 
curious and interesting figures of the Victorian 
period. No one has been more successful in 
catching the true poetic aspect of the pleas- 
ures of the lower middle classes of a great city. 
His "idyls of the London mob," as he calls them, 
are not echoes of Theocritus or Vergil, of the pas- 
toral of the Italian Renaissance, or of the genuine 
bucolic poetry of Scotland and England ; they 
are original and independent treatments of the 
material that he saw actually about him in the holi- 
day excursions of the young people of cockneydom. 



In striking contrast with these simple and charm- 
ing pictures is the dark melancholy which finds ex- 
pression in The City of Dreadful Night and other 
poems of his later years. These poems have often 
been admired, or condemned, as the ultimate 
expression of philosophical pessimism, and often 
the form and the ideas seem to justify such an in- 
terpretation ; but there can be little doubt that 
they are in reality devoid of philosophical signifi- 
cance, though full of power and of far-reaching 
suggestion. The ideas and the imagery have the 
horrible fascination of a hideous dream. They 
are indeed the utterance of a poet of splendid orig- 
inal power and infinite aspiration for life and 
strength and beauty, whose vigor has been sapped 
by folly and misfortune, who with shattered nerves 
and strengthless hands strives vainly to clutch 
some good that has durability and three dimen- 
sions. The City of Dreadful Night is, as the poet 
explains, the city of darkness, peopled with sad 
forms by the insomnia which night after night 
tortures and weakens him and restores him to the 
day empty of strength and hope. 

The selection As I came through the desert is one 
of the narratives of gloom and despair incorpo- 
rated in Thomson's accoimt of the dreadful 
City and the melancholy figures whom the poet 
meets in his wanderings. The poem is very diffi- 
cult. It is clearly symbolic of the passage through 
life of some distressed soul, but the significance of 
the woman with the red lamp in her hand, of the 
two selves of the speaker, and of the woman's 
devotion to the corpse-like self will be differently 
interpreted by different students. Perhaps this 
poem no more admits of a definite interpretation 
of details than does Childe Rolaitd to the Dark 
Tower Came. 

WALTER PATER 

Style 

Pp. 654 ff. Pater's essay on Style is exemplified 
in The Child in the House; from The Child in the 
House it would be possible to deduce his principles 
of style, so completely in his case are critic and 
creator at one. He and Stevenson are the two 
supremely self-conscious artists of the nineteenth 
century ; and yet in neither case does the expendi- 
ture of thought, love, and care upon the process 
itself detract from the beauty of the result. 

Pater's mind worked in a perpetual probing, 
testing, balancing, for the purpose of finding shades 
of difference among resemblances, shades of re- 
semblance where differences were obvious, ever 



NOTES 



779 



approaching exactness in definition, ever defining 
relationships to the last degree of nicety. For that 
reason, his sentences often seem cumbersome; 
he was unwilling to relinquish his effort at expres- 
sion until he had reached the end of the ramifica- 
tions of his thought. Together with this went 
a love of words as words and a wonderful patience 
in seeking the exact word and the right combina- 
tion of words to convey his meaning with such 
emotional suggestiveness as he himself felt in con- 
nection with it. 



The Child in the House 

Pp. 657 ff. The Child in the House is to some 
extent autobiographical. It was written in 1878 
when Pater was thirty-nine years old and had been 
away twent)'-fi\'e years from the Enfield home 
(about ten miles from London). In the house 
itself the Watteau picture probably represents 
one by Jean-Baptiste Pater, Watteau's contempo- 
rary, to whose stock the Enghsh Paters were sup- 
posed to belong. For a study of Watteau and 
Pater, see Pater's essay, A Prince of Court Painters. 
Undoubtedly Florian Deleal represents Pater's 
own attitude as evolved by home influences, just 
as Emerald U thwart reflects his own life at Canter- 
bury School and its effect upon him. 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
Francois Villon 

pp. 662 ff. Stevenson was exactly the man to 
write upon Villon ; he was enough of a bohemian 
and enough of a poet to present with the utmost 
charity and clarity his sordid material. His in- 
terest in Villon appears further in his story, A 
Lodging for the Night, of which Villon is the hero. 

The book upon which Stevenson bases most of 
his information is Longnon's Elude biographique 
sur Franqois Villon, Paris, 1877; but he seems 
also to have consulted the Bourgeois de Paris (ed. 
Pantheon) and the Chronique Scandqleuse (ed. 
Pantheon), among other books. Further details 
and illustrative material about the life of Villon 
may be found in Champion's Franqois Villon, 
Paris, 1913. 

Stevenson's object is to* reconstruct, out of the 
facts brought to light by research, the living 
image of a man. In this he succeeds admirably, 
partly by his sympathetic realization of what 
Villon must have meant to himself and to others, 
and partly by his clearness of presentation. An- 



other source of charm is, as always, his racy and 
delightful English. 

P. 664 a. with specification of one work, etc. 
Stevenson here misses the point. The book in 
question, T/ie Rommant du Pet an Deable, was 
Villon's first work, now lost, a mock romance re- 
lating the pranks of students at the University 
of Paris while Villon was there. The Pet au 
Deable was a stone which lay before the house of 
a pious old woman. It was moved by the stu- 
dents to their quarter, and a great deal of merry- 
making and rioting grew out of the whole affair. 
Signs were also stolen from different parts of the 
city, and the doings finally led to a serious, clash 
between the University and the cit}' authoiities. 
Without attempting to whitewash Villon or his 
lost poem, we may believe that his uncle might 
have received such a legacy without being insulted 
and still be a worthy ecclesiastic, but with a 
twinkle for the vagaries of students. 

P. 668 a. a whole improper romance, etc. 
Stevenson omits the important point that this 
romance was Villon's lost composition referred to 
above. Tabary was a clerk, apparently a fellow- 
student with Villon, who describes him, in this 
very connection, as "a real man" {horns veritable) ; 
but his later career scarcely bore out the compli- 
ment. 

P. 672 a. Charles of Orleans . . . in the pages 
of the present volume, that is Familiar Studies of 
Men and Books, in which is printed also Steven- 
son's essay on Charles of Orleans. He was 
nephew and cousin to kings of France, was cap- 
tured at Agincourt in 141 5, and kept prisoner in 
England for twenty-five years. He had a pretty 
skill in lyric verse and was a great patron of poets. 

P. 675 a. The date of the "Large Testament," 
etc. Since the essay was written, a few more facts 
have been discovered ; but they are sordid details 
of two more arrests, the second ending in a sentence 
of death by hanging, which was afterward hght- 
ened to banishment from Paris for ten j^ears. In 
this case, an unprovoked assault on a notarj' and 
his scribes, Villon seems to have been entirely 
innocent; but he was punished for being in bad 
company, and because his career was notorious. 
In 1463, then, he left Paris, and no more is known 
of him. He was broken in health, and without 
means of subsistence; and the sentence against 
him must have kept him continually exposed to 
danger. He was dead in 1489 when his works 
were first published. 



780 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



TRANSLATIONS OF CLASSICAL AUTHORS 

Every student of English poetry should have 
access to the chief Greek and Latin classics. As 
few can nowadays be expected to read the original 
texts, a brief list of cheap translations of the authors 
who have had the greatest influence upon EngHsh 
Hterature may be useful : 

Iliad, translated by Pope (Astor ed., 50 cents) ; 
tr. Lang, Leaf, and Myers (prose), 80 cents. 

Odyssey, tr. Palmer, 75 cents ; tr. Butcher and 
Lang (prose) , 80 cents. 

.Eschylus (Everyman's Library, 35 cents). 

Sophocles (Everyman's Library, 35 cents). 

Euripides (2 vols., Everyman's Library, 35 
cents each). 



Plato, Five Dialogues on Poetic Inspiration 
(Everyman's Library, 35 cents). 

Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus, tr. Lang (prose), 
80 cents. 

Vergil, tr. Conington (Astor ed. 50 cents) ; tr. 
Lonsdale and Lee (prose), $1.25. 

Horace (Everyman's Library, 35 cents). 

Ovid, the only accessible translation at present is 
that in Bohn's Library 3 vols., $1.50 each (of which 
Vol. II is the most valualjle) ; but Mr. Dent prom- 
ises that a translation will soon be included in 
Everyman's Library. 

Editions of all the classical texts with transla- 
tions are planned for the Loeb Classical Library 
(the Macmillan Company) ; many of them have 
already been published. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Addison, Joseph, 262 
Arnold, Matthew, 591 
Ascham, Roger, loi 

Bacon, Francis, 150 
Beaumont, Francis, 174 
Beddoes, Thomas Lovell, 495 
Blair, Robert, 294 
Blake, WUliam, 359 
Boswell, James, 341 
Breton, Nicholas, 162 
Browne, Sir Thomas, 181 
Browne, William, 176 
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 

545 
Browning, Robert, 549 
Buckhurst, Lord, 105 
Bunyan, John, 239 
Burke, Edmund, 331 
Burns, Robert, 362 
Butler, Samuel, 237 
Byron, Lord, 443 

Campbell, Thomas, 431 
Campion, Thomas, 162 
Carew, Thomas, 181 
Carlyle, Thomas, 497 
Caxton, William, 86 
Chapman, George, 145 
Chatterton, Thomas, ^^;^ 
Chaucer, Geoffrey, 56 
Clough, Arthur Hugh, 578 
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 396 
Collins, William, 319 
Cowley, Abraham, 219 
Cowper, William, 336 
Crabbe, George, 358 
Crashaw, Richard, 214 

Daniel, Samuel, 146 
Defoe, Daniel, 245 
Dekker, Thomas, 166 
Denham, Sir John, 218 
De Quincey, Thomas, 434 
Dobell, Sidney, 591 



Donne, John, 171 
Drayton, Michael, 148 
Drummond, William, 174 
Dryden, John, 222 
Dyer, Sir Edward, 160 
Dyer, John, 300 

Elliot, Jane, 362 

Fergusson, Robert, 362 
Fitzgerald, Edward, 621 
Fletcher, John, 173 
Ford, John, 175 
Foxe, John, 103 
Fuller, Thomas, 185 

Gay, John, 291 
Goldsmith, Oliver, 322 
Gower, John, 51 
Gray, Thomas, 313 
Greene, Robert, 131 
Guildford, Nicholas de, 14 

Hales, Thomas de, 19 
Hawes, Stephen, 86 
Herbert, George, 178 
Herrick, Robert, 177 
Hex'Avood, Thomas, 176 
Hoccleve, Thomas, 72 
Hood, Thomas, 493 
Howard, Henry, Earl of Surrey, 

100 
Hunt, Leigh, 434 

Jeffrey, Francis, 416 
Johnson, Samuel, 302 
Jonson, Ben, 169 
Junius, 351 

Keats, John, 474 

Lamb, Charles, 422 
Landor, Walter Savage, 487 
Langland, William, 24 
Layamon, 5 

781 



Locke, John, 238 
Locker-Lampson, Frederick, 590 
Lodge, Thomas, 129 
Lovelace, Richard, 218 
Lydgate, John, 73 
Lyly? John, 127 

Macaulay, Thomas B., 510 
Macpherson, James, 340 
Mallet, David, 301 
Malory, Sir Thomas, 84 
Mandeville, Sir John, 30 
Marlowe, Christopher, 135 
Marvell, Andrew, 219 
Meredith, George, 644 
Mickle, William JuHus, 361 
Milton, John, 1S9 
Moore, Thomas, 433 
More, Sir Thomas, 95 

Newman, John H. (Cardinal), 

518 

Oldham, John, 238 

Orrm, 4 

Otway, Thomas, 244 

Pater, Walter, 654 

Patmore, Coventry, 623 

Peele, George, 161 

Pepys, Samuel, 234 

Pope, Alexander, 273 

Praed, Winthrop ilackworth, 

494 
Prior, Matthew, 272 

Raleigh, Sir Walter, 160 
Rochester, Earl of, 244 
Rossetti, Christina, 650 
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 624 
Ruskin, John, 5S2 

Sackville, Thomas, Lord Buck- 
hurst, 105 
Scott, Sir Waiter, 417 



782 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Sedley, Sir Charles, 243 
Shakespeare, William, 137 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 458 
Shenstone, William, 311 
Sidney, Sir Philip, 122 
Skelton, John, 87 
Sou they, Robert, 416 
Southwell, Robert, 162 
Spenser, Edmund, 108 
Steele, Sir Richard, 254 
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 662 
Suckling, Sir John, 214 
Surrey, Earl of, 100 



Swift, Jonathan, 248 
Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 



Taylor, Jeremy, 216 
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 523 
Thackeray, William M., 573 
Thomson, James, 296 
Thomson, James, 652 
Trevisa, John de, 71 
Tyndale, William, 96 

Vaughan, Henry, 221 



Waller, Edmund, 184 

Walton, Izaak, 179 

Warton, Thomas, 322 

Wiclif, John, 34 

Wilmot, John, Earl of Rochester, 

244 
Winchilsea, Lady, 294 
Wither, George, 175 
Wolfe, Charles, 458 
Wordsworth, William, 376 
Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 97 

Young, Edward, 292 



INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 



A baby's eyes, ere speech begin 643 

A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink 643 

A baby's hands, like rose buds furled 643 

Absalom and Achitophel 222 

Abt Vogler 567 

Academy for Women, An 245 

AccouNTE OF W. Canynge's Feast, The. . . 358 

Acts and Monuments 103 

Address to tiie Deil 363 

Address to the Unco Guid 368 

Adonais 466 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever 373 

^SOP AND ELhODOPE 487 

A face that should content me wondrous 

well 98 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 395 

After Sunset 644 

A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine. . in 

Ah for pittie, wil rancke Winters rage 108 

Ah me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn 312 

Ah, what avails the sceptred race 492 

All, what is love? It is a pretty thing 132 

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there. . . . 142 

Alastor 458 

Alexander's Feast 224 

Alle beon he blithe 9 

All in the Downs the fleet was moored 292 

All my past life is mine no more 244 

All that I know . . . 554 

All ye that lovely lovers be ... ■ 161 

Althea, from Prison, To 218 

Alysoun 21 

A man must serve his time to every trade. . . 443 

A mayde Cristes me bit yorne 19 

America 591 

A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged 223 

Amoretti 117 

Ancren Riwle, The 8 

An angel thus til him can sai 17 

Angel in the House, The 623 

And are ye sure the news is true 361 

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste. . 222 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down 542 

And so bifel, whan comen was the tyme 56 

And the first grey of morning fiU'd the cast. . 605 

An evil Spirit (your Beauty) haunts me still . 148 

Angler, The Complete 179 

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle i 

An idle poet here and there 624 

A passing glance, a lightning 'long the skies. . 174 



Apelles' Song 128 

Apollo great, whose beams the greater world 

do light 123 

Apparitions 572 

Arcadia 124 

Areopagitica 210 

Art 654 

Arthur for to Corn wale 5 

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers 166 
As I came through the desert thus it was. . . . 652 
As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in 

the snow i6i 

A simple child 382 

As it fell upon a day 162 

Ask, is Love divine 650 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows 181 

A slumber did my spirit seal 386 

A sonnet is a moment's monument '. 630 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 578 

Astrolabe, A Treatise on the 70 

Astrophel antd Stella 122 

As two, whose love, first foolish, widening 

scope 631 

At a dinner so various, at such a repast 329 

Atalanta inCalydon 640 

At a posterne forth they gan to ryde 73 

At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise. . . . 297 

Atheism, Of 154 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever 479 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep- 
time 572 

Auguries of Innocence 360 

Autumn 297 

Autumn, To 476 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints 198 

Awake, .'Eolian lyre, awake 316 

Awake, my St. John ! leave all meaner things 286 

A wanderer is man from his birth 604 

A well there is in the West country 416 

A wind sways the pines 650 

B.'V.LADE de Bon Conseyl 69 

Ballad of Dead Ladies, The 629 

Bard's Epit.aph, A 369 

Bards of passion and of mirth 477 

Battle of Otterburn, The 77 

Battle of the Baltic 432 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead 551 

Beauty clear and fair 1 73 

Beh.wiour of Ridley and Latimer 103 



783 



784 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Behold her single in the field 389 

Be it right or wrong, these men among 88 

Belle of the Ball-Room, The 494 

Belleeophon 649 

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 546 

Beneath the shadow of dawn's aerial cope . . . 644 

BlOGRAPHIA LlTERAILEA 396 

Birthday, A 651 

Birthday, On his Seventy-fifth 493 

Black-Eyed Susan 292 

Blessed Damozel, The 624 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind 144 

BoNiE DooN 372 

BoNiE Lesley 373 

Book of Enydos, Preface to the, 86 

Break, break, break 538 

Bride-Song, The 650 

Bright Star of Beauty ! on whose eyelids sit 148 
Bright Star ! would I were steadfast as thou 

art 479 

Bristowe Tragedie, The 353 

Britannia's Pastorals 176 

Brut, The S 

Burning Babe, The 161 

But, O my muse, what numbers wilt thou iind 262 

By nature's law, what may be, may be now. 293 

By numbers here from shame or censure free 309 

Bytuene Mersh and Averil 21 

Calais, On the Sea-Shore near 395 

Caller Water 362 

Calm was the day, and through the trembling 

air 118 

Cambro-Britans and their Harp, To the 149 

Campaign, The ; 262 

Canterbury Tales, The 59 

Can you paint a thought? or number 175 

Captain Car 81 

Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms 198 

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night. . 147 
Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes 173 

Castle of Indolence, The 298 

Cavalier Tunes 549 

Celia, To 243 

Centre of Indifference 500 

Chapman's Homer, On First Looking into 478 

Chapter on Ears, A 428 

Cherry-Ripe '. 162 

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry 177 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 445 

"Childe Roland to the Dark To-wer 

Came " 556 

Child in the House, The 657 

Child of Quality, To a 272 

Chillon, Prisoner of 451 

Chillon, Sonnet on 451 

Chinese Goes to See a Play, The 322 

Choice, The 632 

Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon 640 

Christabel 415 

Christmas in the Olden Time. . 418 

Christ's Nativity, On the Morning of 189 



Citizen of the World, Letters from a. . 322 

City of Dreadful Night, The 652 

Clod and the Pebble, The 359 

Cloud, The 464 

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain 166 

Collar, The 179 

Colyn Cloute 88 

Come away, come away, Death 144 

Come, dear children, let us away 602 

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring 621 

Come into the garden, Maud S39 

Come live with me and be my love 165 

Come, Sleep ! O Sleep, the certain knot of 

peace 123 

Come we shepherds, whose blest sight 214 

Coming of the Rain, The 297 

Complaint of a Lover Rebuked 100 

Complaint, The, or Night Thoughts. ..... 292 

Compleint of Chaucer to his Empty 

Purse, The 69 

Complete Angler, The 179 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge 395 

Comrades, leave me here a Kttle 532 

Conclusion, The 160 

CONFESSIO AmANTIS 51 

Confessions of an English Opium-Eater 434 

Congreve (Johnson) 302 

Constant Lover, The 214 

Content 166 

Cooper's Hill 218 

Corinna's Going a-Maying 177 

Corydon, arise, my Corydon 162 

Cotter's Saturday Night, The 365 

Countess Dowager of Pembroke, On the 177 

Court of Fairy, The 150 

Creep into thy narrow bed 620 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a 

cloud 198 

Crossing the Bar 545 

Crown of Wild Olive, The 584 

Cry of the Children, The 547 

Cuckoo, To the 38S 

Culture and Anarchy 591 

Cupid and my Campaspe played 128 

Cursor Mundi 17 

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, 

though clear 199 

Cyriack Skinner, To 199 

Daffodils, To 178 

Damelus' Song to his Diaphenia 164 

Dante, To 543 

Dear ! why should you command me to my 

rest 148 

Death 172 

Death, be not proud, though some have called 

thee 172 

Death's Jest-Book 496 

Death stands above me whispering low 493 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 481 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 537 

Defeating oft the labours of the year 297 



INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 



785 



De Regimine Principum 72 

Description and Praise of his Love, 

Geraldine 100 

Description of One he Would Love, A . . . 98 

Description of Spring 100 

Deserted Lover Consoleth Himself, The 97 

Deserted Village, The 324 

Dialogue of Syr Thomas More 95 

Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly 164 

Diary of Samuel Pepys, The 234 

Dirge 173 

Dirge for Phylllp Sparowe, A 87 

Dirge from The Broken Heart 175 

Dirge in Woods 650 

Distant Prospect of Eton College, On a 313 
Divers doth use, as I have heard and know . 97 

Dominus 87 

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my 

brothers 547 

Drake, The Life of Sir Francis 185 

Dramatic Poets, On Lamb's Specimens of 644 

Dream of F.\ir Women, A 524 

Dream Pedlary 495 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 169 

Duncan Gray came here to woo 374 

DuNCiAD, The 290 

Earth has not anything to show more fair . . . 395 

Earthly Paradise, The 633 

Easter Day, 1 579 

Easter Day, H 581 

Eat thou and drink ; to-morrow thou shalt die 632 

Edom o Gordon 81 

Education, Of 208 

Elegy Written in a Country Church- 
yard 314 

Eloisa to Abelard 285 

Enchantment, The 244 

Endymion 479 

England's Helicon 162 

English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. . . . 443 

Enough, I am by promise tied 419 

Epilogue to Asolando, The 572 

Epistle to Dr. ^Arbuthnot 288 

Epistle to the Countess of Cumberland 147 

Epitaph 176 

Epitaph on Charles II 244 

Epitaph on Elizabeth, L. H 171 

Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy, An 171 

Epithalamion 115 

Essay of Dramatic Poesy, An 226 

Essay on Criticism, An 273 

Essay on Man, An 286 

Essays, Bacon's 150 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind 45 1 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky 394 

Eton College, On a Distant Prospect of 313 

Etude Re'aliste 643 

Euganean Hills, Lines among the 460 

Euphues and His England 127 

EuPHUEs' Golden Legacy 129 

Evelyn Hope 551 



Even such is time, that takes in trust 160 

Eve of St. i\GNES, The 482 

Everlasting No, The 497 

Everlasting Yea, The 505 

Expostulation and Reply 383 

Extinction of the Venetian Republic, On 

THE 394 

Fable of Belling the Cat, The 28 

Faerie Queene, The in 

Fair and fair, and twice so fair 161 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 178 

Fairies' Song 434 

Fair stood the wind for France 149 

Fair Virtue 175 

Fairy Revels 128 

Farewell, The 445 

Farewell to Arms 161 

Fatal Sisters, The 318 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun 145 

Februarie 108 

FiESOLAN Idyl, A 492 

Fight with Apollyon, The 239 

Final Chorus from Hellas 473 

First Booke for the Youth, The loi 

First Day, The 651 

FiTZ- James and Roderick Dhu 419 

Five years have past; five summers 384 

Flat down I fell, and with all reverence 105 

Fie fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfast- 

nesse 69 

Flight into Egypt, The 17 

Flowers of the Forest, The 361 

Forget 172 

Forget six counties overhung with smoke. . . . 634' 

Forsaken Merman, The 602 

Fra Lippo Lippi 559 

Francesca da Rimint: 629 

Francois Villon 662 

Frientdship, Of 156 

Friendship, like love, is but a name 291 

From Tuscan came my lady's worthy race. . . 100 

From you have I been absent in the spring. . 141 

Full fathom five thy father lies 145 

Funeral, The 172 

Future, The 604 

Fyll the cuppe, Phylj'ppe 94 

Fytte, The First 37 

Gang of Thieves, A 667 

Garden, The 219 

Garden of Proserpine, The 641 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may 178 

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn 177 

Give a man a horse he can ride 653 

Give a Rouse 55° 

Give me the lowest place : not that I dare. . . 652 

Glories, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease 175 

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song 538 

God Lyaeus, ever young 173 

Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill 617 

Go, lovely Rose 185 



786 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Go, Pretty Birds 176 

Gospel of Mathew 34 

GosPELL or Mathew 96 

Grafton, Letters to the Duke of 351 

Grammarian's Funeral, A 555 

Grandmother, To my 590 

Grasshopper, The 218 

Grasshopper and the Cricket, The 478 

Grave, The 294 

Great Place, Of 152 

Green grow the rashes, O 362 

Groat's Worth of Wit, A. 133 

Grongar Hill 300 

Grow old along with me 569 

Gull's Hornbook, The 166 

Had we but world enough, and time 220 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit 465 

Happy those early days, when 1 221 

Hare with Many Friends, The 291 

Flark ! ah, the Nightingale 616 

Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. . 145 

Harvestmen a-Singing 161 

Having Arrived at the Age of Twenty- 
three, On his 198 

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance 123 

Head-Dress, The 265 

Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill .... 418 

He meets, by heavenly chance express 623 

Hence, all you vain delights 173 

Hence, loathed Melancholy 192 

Hence, vain deluding Joys 193 

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King 244 

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light 

bound 492 

Here, where the world is quiet 641 

Her chariot ready straight is made 150 

Her eyes are homes of sUent prayer 541 

Hero and Leander 135 

He that of such a height hath built his mind 147 

" Hey, down, a down !" did Dian sing 164 

Higden's Polychronicon 71 

Higher Pantheism, The 538 

Highland Mary 373 

HiLPA AND ShALUM 269 

Hilpa and Shalum, Sequel of 271 

Hind and the Panther, The 223 

Hind Horn 83 

His golden locks time hath to silver turned. . 161 

History of England, The 510 

Holy Dying, Rules and Exercises of 216 

Holy State, The 185 

Home Thoughts from Abro.\d 552 

Hope and Fear 644 

Hope, The One 633 

Hornbook, The Gull's 166 

How a Gallant should Behave Himself 

IN a Play-House 166 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways 546 
How like a winter hath my absence been. . . . 141 
How poor, how rich, how abject, how august 292 
How should I your true love know 145 



How sleep the brave who sink to rest 319 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth 198 
"How THEY Brought the Good News 

FROM Ghent to Aix" 550 

How vainly men themselves amaze 219 

hudibras 237 

Humorists, The English 573 

Hydriotaphia : Urn-Burial 181 

Hymn 262 

Hymn in Honour of Beauty, An 120 

Hymn of Heavenly Beauty, An 121 

Hymn on tee Nativity 189 

Hymn to Apollo - 123 

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 459 

Hyperion 481 

I am nae poet, in a sense 364 

I am not one who much or oft delight 391 

I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave 559 

I arise from dreams of thee 463 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 464 ■ 

I can love both fair and brown 171 

Ich asm elder then ich wes a wintre and a lore 2 

Ich was in one sumere dale 14 

Idea 148 

Idea of a University, The 518 

Ideal, The Unrealized 590 

Ideas of Good and Evil 360 

I did but look and love awhUe 244 

Idyl, A Fiesolan 492 

I envy not in any moods 540 

If all the flowers of all the fields on earth .... 644 

If all the world and love were young 165 

If childhood were not in the world 643 

If Hght of life outlive the set of sun 644 

If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song 319 

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree 172 

If there were dreams to sell 495 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought . . ; 545 

If thou survive my well-contented day 140 

If you have a carrier-dove 654 

I have gone the whole round of creation 552 

I have had playmates, I have had companions 431 

I held it truth, with him who sings 540 

Iliad, The 290 

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost 171 

II Penseroso 193 

I met a traveller from an antique land 460 

In a somer sesun whon sof te was the sonne . . 24 

Indian Serenade, The 463 

Indifferent, The 171 

Inland, \vithin a hollow vale, I stood 394 

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side 298 

In Memoriam 540 

In Scotland there was a babie born 83 

In sorrow's cell I laid me down to sleep 129 

In such a night, when ever}^ louder wind .... 294 

In the Holy Nativity of Our Lord God 214 

In the merry month of May 162 

In these deep solitudes and awful cells 285 

Intimations of Immortality 391 

Invocation to Sleep 173 



INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 



787 



In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 399 

I read before mj^ eyelids dropt their shade. . . 524 

I saw Eternity the other night 221 

I sent for Ratclift'e ; was so ill 272 

I sprang to the saddle, and Joris and he 550 

Is there a whim-inspired fool 369 

Is there for honest poverty 374 

Is this a fast, to keep 178 

I strove with none, for none was worth my 

strife 493 

I struck the board and cried, "No more; I 

will abroad 179 

It befell at Martynmas 81 

It fortilies my soul to know 579 

It happened once some men of Italy 634 

I thought of thee, my partner and my 

guide 396 

I thought once how Theocritus had sung .... 545 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free .... 395 

It is an ancient Mariner 400 

It is not growing like a tree 170 

It keeps eternal whisperings around 478 

It little profits that an idle king 532 

It was the winter wild 189 

Itylus 642 

I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking. . . 361 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 390 

I was angry with my friend 360 

I weep for x\donais — he is dead 466 

I wish I could remember that first day 651 

Jason, which sih his fader old 51 

Jenny kissed me when we met 434 

Juggling Jerry 648 

Keep a True Lent, To 178 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his king 549 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now. . 550 

King Horn 9 

King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, and 

grown 543 

Known in V.\in 631 

Know ye the land where the cypress and 

myrtle 457 

KuBLA KLhan 399 

La Belle DA.\rE sans Merci 477 

Lady of Shalott, The 523 

Lady of the Land, The 634 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face 448 

L'Allegro 192 

Lamb's Specimens of Dramatic Poets, On 644 

Landmark, The 631 

Last Word, The 620 

L.\TE Mass.\cre in Piedmont, On the. . . . 198 

Lay a garland on my hearse 173 

Lay of Ros.vbelle 417 

Le Morte Darthur 84 

Lenten ys come with love to toune 22 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds. . . . 142 

Let observation, with e.xtensive view 310 

Let others sing of Knights and Paladins 147 



Letters to the Duke of Grafton 351 

Let us begin and carry up this corpse 555 

Life of Life 623 

Life of Samuel Johnson, The 341 

Life of Sir Francis Dr.ake, The 185 

Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide 118 
Lines Composed near Tintern Abbey .... 384 
Lines Printed under the Portrait of 

Milton 226 

Lines to John Lapraik 364 

Lines Written among the Euganean 

Hills 460 

LocKSLEY Hall 532 

London 309 

London, 1802 395 

Look in my face; my name is Might-have- 
been 633 

Lord General Cromwell, To the 198 

Lord R.andal 83 

Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous 

band 272 

Loss of the Royal George, On the 338 

Lost Days 633 

Love 179 

Love 449 

Love and Life 244 

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew 

back 179 

Love in my bosom like a bee 164 

Love in the Valley 644 

Lover, The 623 

Lover Complaineth the Unkindness of his 

Love, The 98 

Lover's Journey, The 358 

Love's Deity 171 

Love seeketh not itself to please 359 

Love-Sight . .• 630 

Lo\':e's Secret 360 

Love still has something of the sea 243 

Love-Sweetness 630 

Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought 100 
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to 

show 122 

Lowest Place, The 652 

Lucasta, Going to the Wars, To 218 

Lucifer in Starlight 650 

Lucy 386 

Lucy Gray 386 

Lull}', lulley, lulley, lulley 94 

LuvE Ron, A 19 

Lycidas 195 

Lyrical Ball.vds, Preface to .376 

Madrigal 1 1 74 

Maimed, beggared, grey; seeking an alms 649 

Make rome, syrs, and let us be mery 94 

jNIake we mery, botlie more and lasse 93 

Man 292 

M.-iN and Nature 448 

Man and Nature 450 

Man's a Man for A' That, A 374 

Many a green isle needs must be 460 



788 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Marching Along 549 

Margxterite, To 603 

Mariage betwene Grande Amour and 

Labell Pucell, The 86 

Marmion 418 

Marriage and Single Life, Of 151 

Martial, the things that do attain 100 

Master Francis Beaumont's Letter to 

Ben Jonson 174 

Maud _. 539 

May ! Be thou never graced with birds that 

sing 176 

Mean and Sure Estate, Of the 98 

Means to Attain a Happy Life, The 100 

Memory of My Beloved Master, William 

Shakespeare, To the 169 

Men say, Columbia, we shall hear thy guns 591 

Merlin and the Gleam 543 

Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the 477 

Merman, The Forsaken 602 

Mid Rapture 631 

Milton! thou should'st be living at this 

hour 395 

Mirror for Magistrates, A 105 

Mirza, The Vision of 267 

Mistress, To His 244 

Mistress, To His Coy 220 

Modest Proposal, A 253 

Morality 604 

Moral Ode 2 

More than most fair, full of the living fire ... 117 

Morning of Christ's Nativity, On the. . . 189 

MoRTE d'Arthur 528 

Most sweet it is with unuplif ted eyes 396 

Mountain Daisy, To a 369 

Mouse, To a 364 

Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist 425 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of 

gold 478 

Musical Instrument, A 549 

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys. . . 218 

My first thought was, he lied in every word 556 

My good blade carves the car^ 'es of men. . . 537 

My hair is gray, but not fron. years 451 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 

pains 474 

My heart is like a singing bird 651 

My heart leaps up when I behold 389 

My Last Duchess 554 

My letters all dead paper, mute and white . . . 546 
My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful 

eyes 624 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected 

friend 365 

My lute, awake, perform the last 98 

My mind to me a kingdom is 160 

My mother's maids, when they did sew and 

spin 98 

My name is Colyn Cloute 88 

My only Love is always near 590 

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes . . 545 

My Star 554 



Nations, On Refusal of Aid between. . . . 630 

Naval Ode, A 431 

Nay but you, who do not love her 551 

Never seek to tell thy love 360 

Never the time and the place 572 

Night, To 474 

Nightingale, The 123 

Night Thoughts 292 

Nocturnal Reverie, A 294 

No longer mourn for me when I am dead. . . . 141 

Nor can I not believe but that hereby 391 

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us 591 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. . . 458 

Not, Celia, that I Juster am 243 

Not here ! the white North has thy bones. . . ; 543 

Not in the crises of events 624 

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 140 

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul . . 142 
Not that the earth is changing, O my God . . . 630 
Nought is there under heav'n's wide hoUow- 

nesse 114 

Now the storm begins to lower 318 

Now was the Lord and Lady of the May. ... 176 
Now welcom, somer, with thy sonne sof te ... 69 

Nu, bro^err Wallterr, broj'err min 4 

Nuns may Keep no Beast but a Cat 8 

NuTBROWNE Maide, The 88 

Nymphidia 150 

Nymph's Disdain of Love, A 164 

Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd, The .... 165 

O blithe New-comer ! I have heard 388 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton Col- 
lege 313 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 475 

Ode to a Nightingale 474 

Ode to Duty 390 

Ode to Evening 319 

Ode to the West Wind 462 

Ode Written in the Beginning of the 

Year 1746 '. 319 

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes 652 

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing . . 633 
Of Man's first disobedience and the fruit .... 1,99 

Of Nelson and the North 432 

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide . . . 142 

Of the Mean and Sure Estate 98 

Of these the false Achitophel was first 222 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray 386 

Oft in the stilly night 433 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place . 450 

Oh that those lips had language ! 338 

Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly 

birth 445 

Oh, to be in England 552 

Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls. . 455 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 541 

Old Adam, the carrion crow 496 

Old Familiar Faces, The 431 

O listen, listen, ladies gay 417 

O Love ! no habitant of earth thou art 449 

O maister deere andfadir reverent 72 



INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 



789 



O Mistress mine, where are you roaming .... 144 

O Muse ! relate (for you can tell alone) 290 

On a Girdle 184 

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose .... 650 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in f ee . . . 394 

On Death 493 

One Hope, The 633 

On either side _ 358 

On either side the river lie 523 

O, never say that I was false of heart 142 

One word is too often profaned 474 

One Word More 564 

On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood 135 

On his Blindness 199 

On his having Arrived at the Age of 

Twenty-three 198 

On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life. . . 387 

O Rome ! my country ! city of the soul 449 

O Rose, thou art sick 360 

Orrmulum, The 4 

Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band 296 

O saw ye bonie Lesley 373 

O soft embalmer of the still midnight 478 

OssiAN, The Poems of 340 

Others abide our question. Thou art free. . . 602 

O Thou that swing'st upon the waving hair. . 218 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee 363 

Out upon it, I have loved 214 

Over hill, over dale 143 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 477 

O where hae ye been. Lord Randal, my son. . 83 
O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's 

being 462 

Owl and the Nightingale, The 14 

O y^ wha are sae guid yoursel 368 

O young Mariner 543 

ozymandias 460 

Pantheism, The Higher 538 

Paradise Lost 199 

Passions, The •320 

Passionate Shepherd to his Love, The. . . 165 

Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams 160 

Pastime of Pleasure, The 86 

Patient Grissill 166 

Peace ; come away : the song of woe 541 

Pearl 46 

Pembroke, On the Countess Dowager of 177 

" Perche Pensa " . .'. 581 

Perle, plesaunte to prynces paye 46 

Person.^l Talk 391 

Philomela 616 

Philomela's Ode 131 

Phyllida and Corydon 162 

Phyllida's Love-Call to her Corydon 162 

Picture, On the Receipt of My 

Mother's 338 

Piedmont, On the Late Massacre in... 198 

Piers the Plowman 24 

Pinch him, pinch him black and blue 128 

Pindaric Ode, A 170 

Piping down the valleys wild 359 

AH 



Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes 648 

PoEMA Morale, The 2 

Poems of Ossian, The 340 

Poison Tree, A 360 

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing 272 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth 143 

Preface to the Book of Enydos 86 

Preface to "Lyrical Ballads" 376 

Prince's Progress, The 650 

Procrastination 293 

Progress of Poesy, The 316 

Prothalamion 118 

Qua Cursum Ventus 578 

Quid petis, O fily 93 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 569 

Rambler, The 308 

Rape of the Lock, The 275 

Receipt of my Mother's Picture, On the 338 

Recluse, The 387 

Reflections on the Revolution in France 335 

Refusal of Aid between Nations, On .... 630 

Remedy Worse than the Disease, The. . . 272 

Remember 652 

Remember me when I am gone away 652 

Rest 652 

Restore thy tresses to the golden ore 146 

Retaliation 329 

Retreat, The 221 

Revelation, The 624 

Rime of the Ancient .Mariner, The 400 

Ring oiit, wild bells, to the wild sky 542 

River Duddon, The 396 

Robert Browning, To 492 

Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne 74 

Rome 449 

Rondeau 434 

Roundel, A 69 

Rosader's Second Sonetto 131 

Rosader's Sonnet 129 

Rosalind's MApy,iGAL 164 

Rosalynde : Eui ."iues' Golden Legacy . . 129 

Rose Aylmer 492 

Royal George, On the Loss of the 338 

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, The 621 

Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying, The 216 

Rule, Britannia 300 

Ruth 494 

Salathiel Pavy, An Epitaph on 171 

Salt of the Earth, The 643 

Sartor Resartus 497 

S.'VTiRE Dissuading from Poetry, A 238 

Saul ._ 552 

Say not the struggle nought availeth 581 

Say over again and j'et once over again 546 

Scholar Gipsy, The 617 

SCHOLEMASTER, ThE lOI 

School-Mistress, The 312 

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have 

frowned 39^ 



790 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 374 

Sea, On the 478 

Sea-Dirge, A 145 

Sea-Shore Near Calais, On the 395 

Season of mists and mellow frmtfulness .... 476 

Second Three Men's Song, the 166 

See the chariot at hand here of Love 169 

Sephestia's Song to her Child 132 

September, 1802, Near Dover 394 

SejTit Stevene was a clerk in Kyng Herowdes 

halle 84 

Shakespeare 602 

Shall I, wasting in despair 175 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 386' 

Sheep-Washing, The 296 

Shepheards Calender, The 108 

Shepherd's Description of Love, The. ... 163 

Shepherd's Wife's Song 132 

Shepherd, what's love, I pray thee tell 163 

She stood breast-high amid the corn 494 

She walks in beauty, like the night 457 

She was a phantom of delight 389 

Shoemaker's Holiday, The 166 

Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I 

said 288 

Sick Rose, The 360 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more 144 

Silent Lover, The 160 

Silent Nymph, with curious eye 300 

Silent Voices, The 543 

Since all the riches of all this world 360 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor bound- 
less sea 140 

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part 148 

Sir Galahad 537 

Sir John Franklin 543 

Sir John Moore, Burial of 458 

Sir Patrick Spens 80 

Sister Helen ; 626 

Sitting by a river's side 131 

Sky-Lark, To a 394 , 

Sky-Lark, To a 465 

Sleep, To 395 

Sleep, To 478 

Snow-Scene, A 296 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 528 

Sohrab and Rustum 605 

So, in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone 581 

Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er 419 

Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that 

played 396 

Solitary Reaper, The 389 

Song from Old Fortunatus 166 

Song from Shakespeare's Cymbelyne, A 

(Collins) 319 

Song from The Broken Heart 175 

Song from The Shoemaker's Holiday 166 

Song of the Shirt, The 493 

Song of Paris and (Enone 161 

Song of the Songless 650 

Songs from Shakespeare's Plays 143 

Songs of Experience 359 



Songs of Innocence 359 

Song to Bacchus 173 

Song to Celia 169 

Sonnet, The 630 

Sonnet : Written at Stonehenge 322 

Sonnets (Shakespeare) 139 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 545 

Sonnets to Delia 146 

Soul, To his 272 

Soul-Light 631 

Souls of Poets dead and gone 477 

So, we'll go no more a-roving 457 

Spectator, The (Addison) 262 

Spectator, The (Steele) 260 

Speech on the Nabob of Argot's Debts. . . 331 

Spirit's Epochs, The 624 

Spring 297 

Spring's Welcome 128 

Springtime 22 

St. Agnes' Eve 537 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was 482 

Stanzas on Oliver Cromwell 222 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 390 

Sterne 573 

St. Mark's 582 

Stones of Venice, The 582 

Storm in Harvest 297 

Story of Phcebus and Daphne, Applied, 

The 184 

Story of Thebes, The 73 

Strong Son of God, immortal Love 540 

St. Stephen and Herod 84 

Style 654 

Such a starved bank of moss '. 572 

Summer ^ 296 

Sunday up the River 653 

Sunset and evening star 545 

Superscription, A 633 

Sure thou didst flourish once; and many 

springs 221 

Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow 642 

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content 131 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain 324 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 1 78 

Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's downfall 630 

Sweetest Melancholy 173 

Sweetness and Light 591 

Swiftly walk o'er the western wave 474 

Syr Gawayn and the Grene Knyght 37 

Tables Turned, The 384 

Take, O, take those lips away 145 

Tale of a Tub, A 248 

Tam O'Shanter 370 

Task, The 336 

Tattler, The (95, 167, 264) 254, 257, 258 

Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind 218 

Tell me now in what hidden way is 629 

Tell me where is fancy bred 143 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall 554 
That time of year thou mayest in me behold 141 
That which her slender waist confined ,184 



INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES 



79T 



The awful shadow of some unseen Power. . . . 459 

The blessed damozel leaned out 624 

The chief replied: "That post shall be my 

care 290 

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day. ... 314 
The face of all the world is changed, I think 545 

The feathered songster chaunticleer 353 

The forward violet thus did I chide 141 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 433 

The keener tempests come : and fuming dun 296 

The king sits in Dumferling toune 80 

The lost days of my life until to-day 633 

The lytyll, prety nyghtyngale 94 

The means, therefore, which unto us is lent . . 121 
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth ... 123 

Then Perceveraunce in all goodly haste 86 

The poetry of earth is never dead 478 

There is a garden in her face 162 

There is delight in singing, though none hear 492 
There often wanders one whom better days. . 336 

There's Nae Luck about the House 361 

There they are, my fifty men and women. . . . 564 

There was a poet whose untimely tomb 458 

There was a sound of revelry by night 447 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and 

stream 391 

Ther wacz lokyng on lenthe, the hide to be- 

holde 37 

The soote season that bud and bloom forth 

brings 100 

The spacious firmament on high 262 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the 

hills, and the plains 538 

The sun (which doth the greatest comfort 

bring 174 

The time I've lost in wooing 433 

The world is too much with us : late and soon 395 

The world's great age begins anew 473 

They have no song, the sedges dry 650 

They whisted all, with fi.xed face attent 100 

Think thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die 632 
This is the month, and this the happy morn 189 

This Hfe, which seems so fair 174 

This Relative of mine 590 

Thorowe the halle the belle han sounde 358 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation 

OF Switzerland 394 

Thoughts in Westminster Abbey 264 

Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love 631 

Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle 322 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness 475 

Three poets, in three distant ages born 226 

Three years she grew in sun and shower 386 

Through the great sinful streets of Naples as 

I past 579 

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive 137 

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train 184 

Thys ender night 92 

Thy voice is on the rolling air 542 

Tiger, The 360 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright. .' 360 

Timber, The 221 



Tintern Abbey, Lines Composed above. . . 384 

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry . . 140 

'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill 273 

'Tis said, the golden-throned Aurora rose. . . . 145 

'Tis so, 'twas ever so, since heretofore 238 

'Tis the last rose of summer 433 

'Tis the middle of the night by the castle clock 415 

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name 169 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 319 

Toll for the brave 338 

Too late for love, too late for joy 650 

To see the world in a grain of sand 360 

To spend uncounted years of pain 581 

To thee, fair freedom ! I retire 311 

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 178 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 394 

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men . . . 394 

To you, my purse, and to non other wight. . . 69 

Toys, The 624 

Triumph of Charis, The 169 

Troilus and Criseyde 56 

Truth, Of 150 

Turn I my looks unto the skies 131 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 224 

'Twas at the silent solemn hour 301 

Twelfth Book of Homer's Odysseys, The 145 

Two Kinds of Riches 360 

Two Races of Men, The 422 

Two voices are there ; one is of the sea 394 

Ubi sunt Qui ante Nos Fuerltsit 23 

Ulysses 532 

Underneath this sable herse 177 

LTntjerstanding, Of the Conduct of the . . 238 

Under the greenwood tree 144 

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green- 
sward 644 

University, The Idea of a 518 

Unknown Eros, The 624 

Unlicensed Printing, For the Liberty of 210 

Upon Julia's Clothes 178 

Up ! up ! my friend, and quit your books .... 384 

Unrealized Ideal, The 590 

Vain Virtues 632 

Vanity of Human Wishes 310 

Vanity Fair (Bunyan) 241 

Venetian Republic, On the Extinction 

OF the 394 

Venus and Adonis 137 

Villon and the Gallows 670 

Virgil's ^NEiD 100 

Virtue 178 

Virtue smiles : cry holiday 166 

Voiage AND Travails of Sir John Maun- 

devile, Kt., The 30 

Voices, The Silent 543 

Wages 538 

Wanting is — what 572 

Was that the landmark? What, — the fool- 
ish well 631 



792 



ENGLISH PROSE AND POETRY 



Watch thou and fear ; to-morrow thou shalt 

die 632 

Waterloo 447 

We are Seven 382 

We cannot kindle when we will 604 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r 369 

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan 173 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee 132 

Weep with me, all you that read 171 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie 364 

We grant, altho' he had much wit 237 

Well of St. Keyne, The 416 

Well then ! I now do plainly see 219 

Were beth they that bif oren us weren 23 

Westminster Abbey, Thoughts in 264 

We the fairies blithe and antic 434 

Whan father Adie first pat spade in 362 

Whan that Aprille with hise shoures soote ... 59 

What bird so sings, yet so does wail 128 

What cher? Gud cher! gud cher, gud cher 94 
What dire offence from amorous causes 

springs 275 

What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell. . . 632 

What other woman could be loved like you 631 

What's that, which, ere I spake, was gone. . 623 
What time this world's great Workmaster did 

cast 120 

What was he doing, the great god Pan 549 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes 178 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command . . . 300 

When chapman billies leave the street 370 

When do I see thee most, beloved one 630 

When I am dead, my dearest 651 

When icicles hang by the wall 143 

When I consider every thing that grows 139 

When I consider how my Ught is spent 199 

When I do count the clock that tells ^ the 

time 139 

When I have fears that I may cease to be . . . 479 
When I have seen by Time's fell hand de- 
faced 140 

When I made answer I began : "Alas 629 

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's 

eyes 139 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 142 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave 541 

When Love with unconfined wings 218 

When Music, heav'nly maid, was young 320 

When our two souls stand up erect and strong 546 
When shawes beene sheene, and shradds full 

f ayre 74 

When the Assault was Intended to the 

City 198 

When the dumb Hour, clothed in black 543 



When the hounds of spring are on winter's 

traces 640 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 140 

When vain desire at last and vain regret .... 633 

Where the bee sucks, there suck 1 145 

While some affect the sun, and some the 

shade 294 

Whist, Mrs. Battle's Opinions on 425 

"White Doe of Rylstone," The 416 

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm 172 

Who is Silvia? what is she 143 

Who shall have my fayr lady 92 

Who will believe my verse in time to come . . 139 

Why 493 

Why did you melt your waxen man 626 

Why do our Joys depart 493 

Why dost thou shade thy lovely face ? O why 244 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover 214 

"Why, WilUam, on that old grey stone 383 

Wild Olive, The Crown of 584 

W^iLD Youth, A 662 

William and Margaret 301 

Wings have we, and as far as we can go 391 

Winter 296 

Wisdom for a Man's Self, Of 155 

Wish,. The 219 

With fingers weary and worn 493 

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st 

the skies 122 

With that ran there a route of ratones at ones 28 

With Whom is no Variableness 579 

Word, The Last 620 

World, The 221 

Written at an Inn at Henley 311 

Would'st thou hear what man can say 171 

Would that the structure brave, the manifold 

music I build 567 

Would you know what's soft? I dare 181 

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart 160 

Years — years ago, — ere yet my dreams . . . 494 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around. . . 373 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 313 

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon 372 

Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes. . . 115 

Ye little birds, that sit and sing 176 

Ye mariners of England 431 

Yes : in the sea of life enisl'd 603 

"Yet life," you say, "is life 391 

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more 195 

You say, but with no touch of scorn 541 

Youth and Age, Of 159 

You that do search for every purling spring. 122 

Yt felle abowght the Lamasse tyde 77 



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